


Imperfections 5: Passing Through the Underworld

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Series: Imperfections [5]
Category: Highlander: The Series, The Sentinel
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Crossover. Blair tries to straighten out Jim's love life, a nasty murder case gets complicated by the out-of-town experts sent in to 'help,' and nobody is quite as reasonable as they'd like to be. Violence warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfections 5: Passing Through the Underworld

**Author's Note:**

> Finished Nov 2004
> 
> First thing's first: Kitty and Martha betaed, and be glad they did. You do not want to have to read the versions they read. Gad, but it was chaos this time! So they get credit for any and all coherence and clarity (as well as things being spelled consistently the same way). Thank you, ladies.
> 
> Second: as you can see, I've done it again. I'm not even going to try to apologize anymore. If I was really sorry, I'd find a way to stop, but the AU crossovers just keep coming.
> 
> Third: just to be clear, nobody's Immortal. Whenever the Immortals go out to play, everybody joins in on their terms, in their universe, playing their game. Not this time. This time, they get adapted.
> 
> Fourth: Some of you who are really good with continuity and casting and so on are going to see an opportunity for symmetry and elegance that I danced around but didn't take. You don't have to write and ask why, I'll just come out and admit it: I didn't have the heart. Yes, I'm a wimp.
> 
> Fifth: Warnings for violence. I went for the baddest bad guys I could think of--and they turned out to be really nasty.
> 
> Disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Simon, and The Sentinel belong to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount and no copyright infringement is intended. So: not Mine. Not even rented, really. Just sort of borrowed. I'll give them back when I'm done.

After about the middle of a semester, the sentinel gym at Rainier was booked most of the time with either psych and anthro graduate students doing projects or with little groups of sentinel kids from the nearby schools. It became simplest, after a while, to bring Jim in early in the morning a couple of times a week and get their practice in before work in the morning. Blair hated getting up that early, but Jim was still working on balance and kinesics and ear-hand coordination.

Things were coming along very nicely. Better than nicely, really, when you thought about it. That morning, Jim was zipping through sentinel eye charts--all the way down to the next to last line, and he was doing it not only with clear, crisp black letters, but with ones that were pale pink and yellow too. At least under controlled conditions, Jim's vision was every bit as good as it was before the golden exposure. Profoundly relieved, deeply grateful, Blair smiled to himself as Jim read off line after line.

"Aren't we done with this yet?" Jim interrupted himself halfway through line 17, which had pale orange dot-matrix letters.

"Yes, we're done--" Even before Blair finished, Jim was heading towards Blair's backpack to rummage for water and a snack. "Next time we can start to work on skill."

"What do you mean 'skill,' Chief? I've been able to recognize letters and numbers since kindergarten."

"Well, yeah. But now you'll learn to do it while they're moving."

Jim started to laugh, and then scowled. "You're not kidding, are you?"

"No, why? It's fun. You'll like this." Blair gathered up his backpack and notebook. "Listen, since we have to walk past the building anyway, can we stop to check my mail at the department?"

On the second floor landing, Jim paused, looking dubiously at the old, wooden door. "What's on this floor?"

"Um, a few classrooms. Some faculty offices. The new copier room for Anthropology. Why?"

Jim didn't answer. He pushed open the door and slowly walked out into the corridor. He was on high alert, moving carefully, pausing now and then to listen or sniff.

"Jim? What's wrong?"

"Whose offices?" he whispered.

"Some overflow from anthropology. The whole Russian department--I think that's three people. Jim?"

Jim paused outside a door that was, as far as Blair could tell, no different than any of the other doors. On autopilot, he pulled on a vinyl glove from his pocket and tried the knob. It was locked. Jim knelt, examined the lock, then took out his gun and fired twice at an angle into the lock.

The noise echoed in the silent hallway, and even knowing it was coming, Blair jumped. Jim didn't. Gunfire was one of the few sounds Jim could always seem to compensate for automatically. He opened the door.

Blair's first thought was, 'oh, that's what he's been smelling.' It smelled like meat. Not too strong or too old and somehow not quite right. Then he saw the blood.

Brown and everywhere, but... blood. It had to be.

Numbly, he reached for Jim's arm and tried to make sense of what they were seeing. Everywhere he looked, there was blood. Not in sheets, but in tiny drops. In spatters, like that art made by apes. Up and down the bookshelves. All over the walls. Sprinkling the windows in dark spots backlit by glorious sunlight. The floor, where the drops blended into the faded, maroon area rug. The desk--

And then he saw--finally saw, although he must have looked over and past it more than once--the body.

"Sandburg, do you recognize her?" Then, more softly, "Blair?"

Yes, Blair knew her. He had taken Intro to Physical Anthropology and Archaeology from her as an undergrad. At Blair's first department picnic, she had been his partner in the egg toss. She had been making jokes about that being the first year she could remember holding the 'picnic' outside, because usually it rained and they wound up on somebody's couch watching movies.

"Blair?"

He opened his mouth, but her name wouldn't come. Blair closed his eyes, trying to picture her face, her eyes... her dark, curly hair without the mats of blood. He couldn't find the image, but the name came back. "Dr. Watson. Uh, Emily Watson. She taught historic archaeology. She's been here for years--"

Jim nudged him back from the door. "Call it in."

Blair called dispatch and then Simon, and then sat on the other side of the hall with his back to the wall. From this angle he couldn't see the body. Dimly, he was aware that he should be beside his sentinel. Jim, however, seemed quite comfortable.

"Chief, you got a bag?"

Blair dug a handful of evidence bags out of his backpack and came to the door long enough to hold one open for Jim. Jim dropped a wide sliver of porcelain into it. "Keep this one, it's got prints. Not that that may matter. There must have been dozens of students trooping through here, and it didn't get cleaned a whole lot."

Two uniforms arrived first and cordoned off the hall. Then Serena from forensics and the coroner and Simon. Adrian and Sharona showed up, and Blair spared a thought to feel ashamed, until Sharona peeked inside the door and then joined him at the opposite wall.

It seemed to go on for hours. Students and faculty hovered at the police tape on both ends of the hall. University security showed up: more bodies in blue uniforms. Then Rainier administration began to arrive, adding a shrill note to the melody of horror and surprise.

When they left, finally, Jim drove them to an IHOP, not the station. Blair wasn't in a frame of mind to question it; if Jim was hungry, then they would eat. Even after half a year, Blair couldn't take Jim's eating for granted.

At the table, though, Jim did not look at his menu. He ordered coffee, and as soon as the waitress was gone, reached across and squeezed Blair's arm. "There's no reason to be ashamed if you're feeling a little queasy, all right? Shock is your body's way of protecting itself."

"Shock?"

"That was a pretty bad one, Chief. I know that. And crime scenes aren't usually... a surprise."

"No, I'm ok, Jim. Really."

"How well did you know her?"

"Not... not really well. I haven't even spoken to her since.... fall sometime. Before I met you." He closed his eyes. "Jim, sometimes you read.... I mean, every once in a while a graduate student flips and... there was this guy in California who took out his whole committee--"

"Yeah? Wait, are you asking if a student could have done this?" Jim looked away. "No. Just no."

Blair took a deep breath, nodded.

The waitress brought the coffee. Jim ordered them both toast. "No arguments. You need to eat something."

When they finished breakfast, they called in for Dr. Watson's home address and went to check out her house.

"It's been searched," Jim said.

"How can you tell?" It was a little disorderly, but not what Blair had come to think of as 'tossed.'

"Smell," Jim said absently. "The dust has been disturbed. Things have been handled. I smell latex."

"Gloves," Blair said. "So no prints, then."

Jim shrugged. "Doubt it. We'll send forensics anyway." He looked around sadly. "Careful, whoever they were. Not professionals, exactly. Not the usual kind. But careful."

They went back to Rainier. Most of the Anthro professors who had classes that day had canceled them, but most also seemed to have stuck around. None of them had anything useful to say. It was weird, watching Jim question people Blair had known for years. It was weirder having faculty members who had graded him treat him like a cop. When he realized that Jim had faded back to lean against the door while Blair carefully questioned his department chair, it felt downright surreal. Of course, the whole day felt surreal.

"Nobody's been able to tell us much about her social life," Blair prompted gently.

"There wasn't much to tell. I don't think she's dated since her divorce three years ago. No family in town." Hal thought a moment. "She volunteered at the animal shelter. The no-kill shelter on the east end. Her work here, a summer dig up the coast, and her work for the state. That was it."

Blair nodded. "Oh, yeah. Public archaeology."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"When a developer is starting a big project he has to publish an environmental and cultural impact statement," Hal said. "Things would get ugly if we cut a road through an old unmarked cemetery or a valuable archaeological site."

"Sounds like there's plenty of room there for bad feelings," Jim said.

Hal laughed once, bitterly. "Oh, yes. There has been some ugliness in the past. But, detective, it usually shows up as a lawsuit. Or attempted bribery. Something like this....." Hal shook his head.

"We'll need her files from the sites she was looking at just the same," Blair said.

They packed it in around three. Jim had a meeting with an arson investigator at three-thirty to talk about a case they were wrapping up. Technically, they both had a meeting with her, but Debra Reeves never really seemed to notice when Blair was in the room. She wasn't rude about it. She wasn't unkind. But it was Jim she had initially pegged as unwanted competition and it was Jim she continued to watch with respect once he had proved he wasn't some kind of idiot.

Well, he was some kind of idiot, because he didn't seem to notice that Reeve's regard held more than just professional respect. Jim spent the hour-long meeting being competent and courteous. Blair spent most of the meeting lamenting the waste.

In the elevator, afterward, he gave in to temptation and tried to prod Jim a little. "You know, she's really nice. You should ask her out."

"Who?"

"Debra!"

Jim looked at him in surprise. "Why?"

The question was unexpected, but Blair rallied valiantly. "Because she's hot. Because she likes you. Because she's nice. Because--"

"Very funny. Can we get back to work?"

The doors opened and Jim sailed past without a backward look. He seemed almost annoyed.

"Jim, I'm serious here. She was making eyes at you the whole time. How can you ignore that?"

"Don't be an idiot. Her father just died--"

"So, maybe she's just looking for a little distraction. It doesn't have to be anything serious. A little fun, a little roll in the hay--"

Although Blair wasn't speaking loudly, Jim spun around and hissed, "Will you be quiet!"

It was a reaction out of proportion to the discussion, and Blair wasn't sure if he should be annoyed or worried. "What? Just what is the problem? Don't tell me you don't like her--"

Jim flinched away and spun on his heel headed toward Major Crime. Blair scampered after him. As he caught up, he whispered, "Jim, if it's the senses you're worried about, I have some pamphlets--"

Jim turned mid-stride, caught Blair by the arm, and firmly steered him into the break room. "Look, you want to tell me what to eat? Fine. You want to tell me how to sleep, what to clean my house with, how to breathe? Fine. Great. I'm happy about that, really. I appreciate it. But there are limits, Sandburg."

Blair wondered what the hell Jim was talking about. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Some things are personal!"

"Jim," Blair said gently, "I buy your toothpaste. That's pretty personal."

"I am only going to tell you this once. Stay out of my love life." In a show of that amazing physical strength that Blair normally so seldom saw, Jim slid his partner aside and stormed back out, headed for the bullpen.

They did paperwork for two hours in icy, awkward silence before heading home for leftovers and television. Before dinner, Blair tried to apologize. Jim cut him off. "Look, Chief. I know you mean well. But leave it alone, ok?"

"Sure. Fine. No problem."

The next day started early and went at a dead run. Besides interviewing other volunteers who worked with Emily Watson at the animal shelter, they took a look at a crime scene for Homicide and went over a body for Dan Wolf, the coroner.

At one-thirty, when they got back to the station, the files from Emily Watson's current projects were waiting on Jim's desk. He scanned them briefly and handed them to Blair. "How about I go get us some lunch, Chief, and you start on these. They barely seem to be in English."

Blair sighed. There were some eight inches of files on paper and a short stack of floppy discs. But Jim had a point; he didn't know enough about archaeology to recognize something important. Blair, frankly, barely knew enough. "Ok. Make it a chicken Caesar salad from 'Barney's' and you're on."

Jim was only gone a minute or so when Rhonda appeared carrying another file. "The prints came back on the Watson case. You weren't here, so I went ahead and ran the name." Blair sat up. "Really? We've got a name? Thanks, Rhonda!"

When Jim got back half an hour later, Blair had made it through most of the file. "His name is Evan Kaspari. He likes to kill people for fun." In the back of his mind, Blair had been expecting some average guy--no doubt a 'quiet' neighbor--who had just snapped. Or something. He had expected, he supposed, that when they found whoever did that to Emily Watson, that it would be mystifying, that the whole thing was unpredictable. That they would find criminals (and the word hardly seemed adequate) actually equal to this crime.... No. He hadn't expected it. "He's wanted in six countries for rape, murder, kidnapping."

"Wow," Jim said, looking pleased rather than horrified. He set the bag of lunch aside, forgotten, and reached for the file.

"Wait, it gets worse. He has friends." Blair reached over and tugged a grainy fax of a picture out of the sheaf of papers. "Silas Etz, and here, this is Melvin Koren. He appears to be the head of their little outfit. Mainly, he's an extortionist, but he also has a soft spot for stealing antiquities and torturing people for fun."

"Why haven't I heard of him?"

"No one's ever caught him. Also, he picks fairly small targets; governments and international conglomerates won't 'deal' with terrorists, so he goes after small towns and medium sized companies. People who scare easily or care about their neighbors on a personal level, or who can't afford the bad press of a huge disaster. Usually he kills a few people or damages some property to prove he can, and then his demands get met. An oil company in the Ukraine. An entire small town in southern France. He started his career in Australia, where he killed eight people blowing up a bridge during a payroll heist. He's gotten more creative since. A fertilizer plant in India wouldn't meet his demands. A week later it was demolished in an explosion. Thirty people died. There wasn't conclusive evidence linking him to the explosion and it's officially listed as an 'industrial accident.' Last fall it was Edinburgh, where he held up the city for a million dollars for not disrupting their arts festival. He proved his threat by setting off a small bomb in a theater a week before the festival was to start. The bomb didn't kill anyone, but an elderly man was trampled in the crush toward the door."

By this point even Jim was impressed.

"While he was in town, he robbed a local archaeological site—well, the lab doing their analysis. There was gold, maybe 300 grams, I don't know what that is in ounces. He kidnapped a police scientist and kept him for almost two weeks. Didn’t kill him, although apparently it was a near thing. After that, he and Etz were spotted in an airport in Madrid in December, and Interpol swarmed the city with investigators, but apparently they didn't even get close. They are wanted for kidnapping, assault and attempted murder in Spain, now, though."

Jim spent several minutes looking over the file himself, then set it aside and got up to pace. "So if Koren is in town, he may already have contacted someone with his demands."

"Yeah. Maybe." Blair frowned. "Unless he's here for antiquities. I mean, Watson was an archaeologist."

"Right. We should be looking into museums, traveling exhibitions, dig sites..."

Blair thought. "Well, maybe not dig sites. You don't find a lot of precious metals in the Northwest. And art made out of wood doesn't last forever in this climate."

"There's some valuable stuff here, though, right, Chief?"

"Well, but compared to Koren's usual payoff... he'd have to carry out masks and carvings by the truckload. I can't see this guy going after local stuff."

"Right, museums." He picked up the file. "Come on. Let's go talk to Simon."

Simon grasped the situation almost immediately. After a very short discussion, he was on the phone warning superiors and reorganizing his department. Blair and Jim, rescuing their abandoned lunches on the way out, took the photos of Koren and the others back to the university and then the animal shelter.

No one had seen any of the men pictured.

At five-thirty they gave up; everyone they might talk to had gone home for the night. Back at the PD, more complete files had arrived from Interpol, Australia, and the Greater Mumbai Police Force.

"Where did you say that last one was?" Jim asked.

"India. Ooo. Hey, and it's even in English. Oh, but this one's not. I think it might be Romanian."

Jim started on the new files and Blair looked through the stacks of information and notes they'd gotten from Emily Watson's office. Henry Brown was also staying late, looking for local sources of valuable antiquities. Around seven, they ordered a couple of pizzas.

Blair nearly lost his appetite when he saw what Jim had been looking at. The stack from Interpol included pictures of Koren's victims. The bodies from India were in rows, laid out in front of their factory. They were covered in sheets, but Blair could easily imagine the innocent people who had died. The police scientist from Edinburgh had lived; there were before and after pictures of him. In one, he was an earnest, dark-haired young man smiling shyly for the camera. In the others--evidence pictures of the kind Blair had seen many times before--he was so badly bruised and swollen that he was almost unrecognizable as the same person. Blair put down his pizza and flipped the page. Australia: four dead security guards (smiling, in their uniforms) and a family who had been caught in the explosion that dumped the armored car into the river. And one more--a police inspector Koren had killed with a machete, apparently for the hell of it.

Jim reached past him and closed the file, pushing it away. "Enough, Chief. Let's call it a night."

Blair opened his mouth to protest, but gave up, unsure what he was going to argue about.

It was drizzling as they drove home. Jim took it slow, and Blair thought he might be having a hard time focusing on traffic and lights and falling water at the same time, but maybe he was just thinking, because halfway home he said, "Blair, if you're having a hard time dealing with this...."

"Why would I have a hard time dealing with this? I didn't kill those people. I didn't torture Emily Watson or the police scientist in Scotland or--" Blair paused. "I'm one of the guys who's going to get these maniacs. I don't have anything to deal with, ok?"

"Ok, that's a good start. But you've got to learn to separate yourself."

"Oh, yeah. Right. Just check my humanity at the door?" Surely that was the last thing Jim needed from his guide.

"Whatever it takes to stay present. What happens when we actually meet these guys? You can't afford to be so angry or so horrified that you can't think. If your emotions are in the way, you're useless, potentially dangerous."

Blair sighed. "Yeah, yeah. If I'm going to hang with cops, I have to learn to think like a cop." They had had this part of the talk before.

Jim sighed. "Sandburg, you talk to me about 'sustainable.' As upset as you are, that's not sustainable. Get me?"

"Yeah. I get you." Blair tried a smile. "I liked our relationship better when I was the reasonable one."

"I like a change now and then. Livens thing up."

At home, there was chicken and squash and bok choi in the fridge. Blair was tired enough that taking the food out and cutting it up felt like a ten-mile hike uphill, but he was finally getting Jim to move a little bit away from junk food, and he wasn't going to waste a night on greasy take-out. One meal in seven (and that included breakfast) was either Wonderburger or pizza, but fortunately Jim had paid enough attention to body-building over the years to realize that, yes, a person needed protein and vitamins and minerals and fiber.

It was pretty clear about five minutes after putting the plates on the table that this wasn't going to be one of the good nights. Jim was picking at his food and chewing with a determination that made it pretty clear he was forcing himself.

"Your senses ok?" Blair asked.

Jim smiled thinly. "Yeah, I'm good."

"But you're not hungry."

"No, I am. I should eat. Lunch was a long time ago." Jim's appetite wasn't always regular. Jack Kelso was of the opinion that the parts of Jim's body and brain that dealt with hunger and eating were still a little confused by the long struggle they'd had under Brackett, and that, like everything else, it only needed time.

"You don't have to eat," Blair said gently.

Jim glared at his plate and complained, "You'll fuss." Blair blinked at that. "Oh. Yeah. I guess I will." He smiled gently. "I'll tell you what: your weight's good, your blood work's good. How 'bout we take the night off. Blow off the meal. Or eat cookies. Whatever. You can afford to just forget it for once."

Jim eyed him narrowly, trying to puzzle out Blair's motives. "What's up?"

"Nothing. Really."

"This is the tone of voice you used to get when I couldn't eat anything." He was still suspicious.

"Well--eating is stressing you out. And you're under a lot of pressure. I'm not sure forcing this meal is worth it. That's all."

"I'll handle it better with some food on board."

"That's true."

"So, I'll eat."

"Ok. But tonight I won't nag."

Jim set to eating. He managed half the plate before sighing and pushing the remains away. Blair pretended not to notice. He asked Jim innocuous questions about trying to coordinate information from international law enforcement sources. The answers were actually interesting.

It wasn't even nine o'clock when they finished. Blair was tired enough to go to bed right then, but he was wired from the case. Instead he brought out his laptop and started on his monthly report to Jack while Jim watched a western with the sound turned down. He was pretty sure that Jack wasn't going to get over the whole Golden thing anytime soon. He was also still pretty sure that Jack's position was based more on his baggage about his own sentinel Marcia than about an objective analysis of Jim's specific situation. Jack was committed to the value that you did not ignore a sentinel's problems and you did not force a sick or compromised sentinel to work. Blair agreed--had at the time and still did now--and the idea of Jim working a case effectively blind had had him a little nauseous for five days. Even being drugged out of his skull and mostly unconscious hadn't quite erased that particular terror.

But working had been Jim's choice. Dangerous or not, it had to be Jim's choice. Every time Blair had opened his mouth to ground his partner he'd thought of Brackett bullying and controlling and tyrannizing Jim. But there Jim was, arguing calmly, saying that they would blow the case if they switched contacts now, explaining that it was personally important to him, pointing out that any number of sentinels operated very well blind and (apparently he had gotten this from his doctor, who was eager to be reassuring) naming names Jim, focused, calm, and organized (even though he had to be completely terrified) was showing them how much of his own strength and certainty he had gotten back in just a few months. No matter how worried he was, Blair could not bring himself to say, "It doesn't matter that you're probably right and can do this. It doesn't matter that you need to do this. You don't control your life, and I say no." He just couldn't do it.

Jack was still mad.

Blair supposed he was lucky not to have been suspended (or worse) by his advisor. The fact that Jack hadn't withdrawn Blair's credentials had nothing to do with consideration for him. Blair was still a working guide only because Jim's unique situation made it highly inadvisable to disrupt his environment, even if that environment included a guide with appallingly poor judgment. As Jack had put it, "considering his history, it's a damn miracle he's been able to achieve rapport with any guide. But the inescapable truth is, since he met you this is the first night he's spent in a hospital. Removing you would be traumatic. Doing without a guide for however long it took him to accept a replacement would be hazardous if not fatal."

Jack was polite these days, but he watched Blair very carefully. He called Jim twice a week to make sure he was all right. Blair didn't dare argue. He turned his reports in on time. He showed up for meetings. He didn't complain.

***

The next morning while Blair was in the shower, the phone rang. He heard it dimly over the fall of the water, and put down the soap. This early in the morning, it had to be work. Half-washed, he gave up and rinsed, hopping out of the bathroom still dripping and trying to dry his feet on the soft, blue towel.

"We've got a lead on Koren, Chief, let's go," Jim said. He was already throwing his shoes on. Blair dove for his bedroom and dressed. His shirt still stuck damply to his shoulders when they arrived at the scene.

It was another murder. This one looked like a mugging. There was very little blood, just a small knife-wound in the chest. The victim was a man, average height, average build--at least from what Blair could tell from the figure still lying on the ground. He was slightly damp from the dewfall. Blair had to remind himself that the victim couldn't possibly be cold.

"What have you got?" Jim asked, leaning toward the body but careful not to touch any evidence.

"We got a call around 1:32 this morning," said a tired-looking man in a mussed suit. "Mugging. One of the neighbors saw part of it. So we came out--the coroner was tied up at a jackknifed semi on the Roligh Bridge and we only had two uniforms--so, anyway, we didn't get the neighbor's statement until about an hour ago. Turns out she's elderly, gets up a lot at night. She got a look at the killer."

Jim looked around. "How? At one-thirty in the morning? There aren't any streetlights."

"It gets better." The detective yawned and pointed at an upper window of a building fifty yards down the block. "Turns out she's a sentinel. Retired doctor. She looked out the window because she smelled the blood." He shook his head. "She saw a man going over a body, searching it. A mugging. And his wallet's gone, so it all fits, right? Except the description she gave of the suspect matches the guy Major Crimes is so hot after."

Jim spoke with barely restrained excitement, "Which one?"

"Koren. Long, vertical scar crossing the right eye, right?"

Jim smiled. "Good work." He leaned over the victim. "Do we know who this was?"

"Nope. No ID. The forensics people have already been over the body."

Jim searched the body too, but found nothing that might be useful. They spent almost an hour going over the narrow, quiet street, but Jim didn't come up with anything there, either.

By the time they gave up and returned to the station, Henry had a list of museum exhibits, private collections, and antiquities dealers who were possible targets for Koren's gang, and Simon wanted to see them in his office.

"Hear you boys have another lead," Simon said. He looked encouraged.

Jim snorted. "Yeah. As soon as we find out who he was and why he was killed."

"Yeah, ok." Simon sighed. "I won't be giving the brass the good news yet. So, anyway, your pal Koren is a popular guy. Australia and the UK are both sending people over to join the party." He held out a couple of faxes to Jim, who just glared at them sullenly.

Blair took the papers.

"We don't need the help," Jim said. "The case is moving along fine."

"Jim," Simon said, with the patient tones of a reasonable man who spent much of his time smoothing the feathers of ruffled birds both above and below him on the pecking order, "Maybe we do. No, hear me out. This gang has been playing with police forces across the world for six years. I haven't even sat down and counted the total number of people who have died--"

"Yeah, and weren't these the people he was running circles around when he did it? Their help I don't need."

Blair ignored the argument. It wasn't a sentinel territorial thing, it was a cop thing. Nobody ever wanted to give up control of 'their' investigation, or even, usually, share it. He had seen this discussion enough times to know how it would end for almost everyone in Major Crimes. In Jim's case, Simon would eventually have his way, but not until Jim had groused enough to be able to say 'I told you so' when whatever outside authority he had to talk to, work with, or take orders from irritated him.

"They know Koren, Jim. And experience might just have taught them something."

The pages contained the pictures and credentials of the arriving investigators. Sometime last year, Major Crimes had been infiltrated by the very serial killer they had been tracking; they'd been scrupulous about getting proper IDs and backgrounds on visiting investigators since. The information wasn't very detailed, but it was enough to make sure everybody was just who they said they were.

The Australian was a real cutie. An unprofessional opinion, but true. If the grainy, small, black and white picture at the top of her credentials page was anything close to accurate, she was drop dead gorgeous.

The other two were from the Lothian and Borders Police, which was--Blair scanned the page--in Scotland. That would be from the mess in Edinburgh last fall.

"Look, the bottom line is, you can't afford to pass up any edge or any help. Here's their itinerary. They've worked together before. Both parties are coming in on the same connecting flight through Dallas, so you can pick them all up at the same time."

 

"They're sending a sentinel?" Blair blurted in surprise.

Jim snatched the papers away and read them himself. "You don't put two sentinels on one case. Come on, Simon, this is a waste."

Simon shrugged. "I could reassign you."

Blair gently took the pages back. "Don't worry about it, Jim. Your problem is solved. Mostly. You can't put a sentinel on a plane for twenty hours, drop him in a foreign country, and expect him to be able to work. Whoever this MacLeod is, he's going to spend the first three days completely useless, and possibly immobile."

"He's got a partner--" Jim wasn't finished protesting.

"Yeah. A guide. Who will be tied down with his sentinel. The Australian is the only one who we'll really have to deal with. I dunno, Jim. It might be useful to have someone who knows these guys."

Jim sighed and ground his teeth, a sign that he was willing to be coaxed into being reasonable. Then he looked at the itinerary again. "Who's this third person coming from Edinburgh?"

"What?" Simon took the papers back and glared at them. "Well, I don't know. But whoever this 'Tessa Noel' is, she's not getting near this case until we have her credentials on file."

Jim's smile was brittle. "Glad to hear it."

Simon handed the itinerary back. "You're meeting their plane at five-thirty. Don't do anything I'll have to apologize for later, hmmm?"

"Have a little faith," Blair said. He actually did mean it to be reassuring, but Simon seemed to think he was kidding.

***

"Hey, Sandburg? You wanna go pick us up some lunch?"

Blair looked at him suspiciously. "It's a little early."

"Well, we missed breakfast."

"And while I'm out, you'll be....?"

"Here. Not doing anything dangerous," he said casually. "I thought I'd go down and talk to Dan about this morning's victim."

"You sure you want to do that alone?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who pukes at crime scenes." He tried to make a joke of it, and apparently Sandburg took it that way, because he answered, "That is so low, man. I do not resemble that remark. Anyway, the five car pile-up doesn't count as a crime scene."

"Ahem. The Reeves' van?"

Sandburg sobered. "I can do this."

Jim lowered his voice. "It's not like you got any training for this. And it's been a rough week. Besides, I'm hungry." That last, Blair would never argue with. He didn't this time, either. While his guide went to collect lunch, Jim went down to the morgue.

There was no ID on the body yet, and Dan hadn't had time to do anything more than check it in. Together they examined it carefully, and Jim watched as Dan took samples. Blair kept saying that if Jim would let himself zone on routine tasks where noticing and compiling details was key--crime scenes and evidence analysis, like this--he would get more information faster and he'd be better at intuiting what was important. But Jim didn't really want to be that absorbed in a task like this.

He removed the victim's clothing from its bag, turned the pieces in gloved hands. Smelled them. "Curry," he said. "I think." He hadn't had Indian food since coming on line.

"That's a start," Dan said, not looking up from the sample bag he was marking.

Jim walked around the table. "He's fairly clean. His aftershave's not particularly cheap. He ate Indian food." But they didn't know who he was or why Koren had killed him. "What did you have? Or what did you know?" Despite the reputation of sentinel interrogation skills, you couldn't get the dead to tell you what they knew.

A message from Debra Reeves was waiting on his voice mail when Jim got back to his desk. She wanted to know if he was willing to try surfing again. Maybe this Saturday? A hasty check told him that Sandburg wasn't in the building yet. He called her back and explained that they were in the middle of a murder investigation that could very quickly complicate into something else, so he couldn't be sure of having Saturday off, or any free time at all in the immediate future. Maybe some other time, though....

He was carefully polite about it. It just wasn't worth the trouble being honest. He might have to work with her again some day, and asking her what the hell kind of idiot she was anyway would probably make things awkward later.

The up-side was that Sandburg never had to know about it. In his less charitable moments, Jim was convinced that Sandburg, for all his years of training and mountains of sentinel trivia at his fingertips, didn't really have a clue what it was like living with these senses. Walking crime-labs had no business going out on a date.

In more generous moments--and this was one of them--he told himself that Blair was just pushing him to have as normal a life as possible. He did it all the time. Maybe, for Sandburg, even going through the motions of dating was necessary to being well-adjusted and socially connected. Maybe he was right, and eventually it would seem perfectly natural to really look at women, to go out, to eventually....

But not now. Now, all he could imagine was a hundred opportunities for embarrassment, discomfort, and conflict.

Jim was just sitting down to go through the file they'd been accumulating on Dr. Watson when Blair brought back a sack of sandwiches. Things quickly coalesced into an impromptu meeting and lunch. They sat around the sixth floor conference room with Brown, Rafe, Simon, Carolyn, and two uniforms assigned to perform support, Theo Lane and Gwen Lopez.

"We have to assume that Watson wasn't a random victim," Jim said. "These people are indiscriminate about who dies, but they usually have a specific agenda."

"Yeah, but what?" Simon asked "You said things were quiet at the department. She hadn't mentioned anything unusual to anyone, she wasn't working with any museums...."

"She was doing work on three public archaeology projects," Sandburg said. "One was an extension off State Highway Five. She was about to sign off on that, nothing there. Another was a tourist development near Winslow. That had barely started. The last one was an expansion of the Cantor Office Park, and it looked like there might be something there, but by all accounts Cantor was on board with the whole research thing. Emily was going to run a small dig over the summer. Cantor wasn't going to break ground for the construction on that phase of the project until next spring."

Simon sighed. "Could she have owned something they wanted? Koren and his crowd like antiquities. She was an archeologist."

"If she did, nobody in the department knew about it. Her kind of work--it was old pennies, broken pots, bits of half-rotted wood, and rusty metal. Nothing more than two or three hundred years old."

"Maybe there's a connection between her and the second victim," Carolyn said thoughtfully.

The meeting lasted for three hours. When it was over they didn't have any better guesses than when they'd gone in. Jim started going over the more detailed reports of Koren's methods, trying to imagine what sorts of warning signs they might be able to look out for. Sandburg and Brown sat down with Brown's list of local archaeology exhibits and the list of Koren's previous heists hoping to find something that matched the pattern. Lopez and Lane were sent to show pictures of the second victim around campus and Watson's neighborhood. Jim had a sinking feeling none of it would be good enough.

It was almost a relief when Blair tapped his shoulder at four and said it was time to leave for the airport. Actually arriving at the airport changed Jim's mind about that.

The landing planes had the most astonishing vibration. It wasn't even a sound. It vibrated through his bones, making his legs, his skull, his jaw throb with something that wasn't pain but made him want to... something. He didn't know. Something.

Walking through the concrete parking structure he could feel the building vibrate too. Not loud, but deep. The air bounced with reflections every time a plane touched down.

"Jim? Is this the first time in an airport since....?"

"Yes. Thanks for asking."

"Look, it's just information. You'll get used to it. It will turn into background."

Jim muttered something profane and unkind.

Sandburg patted his shoulder. "That's the spirit."

Jim waited by the wall while Sandburg cheerfully picked up the rental cars their guests had reserved. He reminded himself that the throbbing hum that poured up through the soles of his feet every eight minutes did not mean the building was coming down.

He paid attention to his breathing. Slow, deep breaths, even though the air was vibrating too.

"You're doing great," Blair said as they cleared security and headed toward the gate to wait.

Jim gave him the finger. "What gets me here, Chief, is that there are sentinels who work airport security."

"Yeah, well. A few can't adapt, but most get used to it in a few hours. Hey, why don't you pay attention to the sounds--see if you can guess what kind of plane is coming in.... Right. Or not."

Flight 2146 from Dallas was late. Jim picked up a newspaper someone had left and tried to forget the air traffic coming and going around them. Sandburg dug out the briefs Simon had given them on their guests and flipped through them distractedly.

Planes landed and took off. The feel of them became less surprising, but Jim couldn't imagine trying to work here. As he got used to the aircraft, he felt the pressure of dozens of voices, the smells of machinery, the tap of heels, the hiss in the PA every time a flight was announced.

"How's it coming with the museum lists?" Jim asked.

Blair rolled his eyes. "The big deal in town at the moment is a NASA exhibit Rainier is hosting. No antiquities, nothing particularly valuable--and nothing small and portable. Next week, the Norman Gallery is opening a Maxfield Parrish exhibit."

"Not Koren's style."

"Nope. The Maritime Museum has about two million in gold coins, but it's not all stored in the same place for easy, one-stop thieving. Henry is now looking at stuff in Seattle and Olympia."

Jim started to answer. Another plane landed, passing through Jim's bones in a long, slow shudder.

"Damn," Sandburg muttered.

"What?"

"Well, I was curious, you know? I've never met a European guide before. But it turns out he's American."

"Bummer," Jim answered patiently. Sandburg's unending enthusiasm for things sentinel was irritating, but he knew it worked to his own benefit, so it would be tacky to complain.

Sandburg snorted. "Worse than 'bummer.' He was trained as a guide as a United States Marine."

"So where does that rank on the scale of horrifying? Worse than the Coast Guard?"

"Much, but not as bad as the CIA."

"Great."

When the plane was finally announced, Jim was almost eager to collect their foreign 'help' so they could leave at last. The people they were looking for didn't appear in the debarking crowd. Jim looked again at the grainy, slightly squashed faxed images. There was no way they'd missed them. Nobody had even come close.

The waiting area had completely emptied before Jim heard someone else in the gate. A man was singing. It was very quiet, but the sound cut through the high buzz that chorused through the terminal.

"Maybe they missed their flight," Blair said.

Jim shook his head. He could not make out words and the voice sounded slightly hoarse, but there was a steadiness to it that made everything else recede.

A woman finally cleared the door. Her red hair was travel-wilted and she had on a brown coat trimmed with pink fake fur. She was moving slowly, towing a suitcase behind her and two large bags balanced over her shoulder. Her eyes settled on them, then she glanced back. Behind her were two men, clinging together with an open unsteadiness and need that screamed 'sentinel and guide' to Jim's now-practiced eye. Then, behind them, another woman, blond, also buried under luggage.

The red-haired woman picked up the pace and homed in on Jim and Blair. Behind her the other three stumbled to the nearest row of chairs and sat down shakily.

"Inspector Megan Conner, New South Wales Police Services. Which one of you is detective Ellison?"

Jim didn't answer. The rest of the party was much more interesting. He could smell pain, now, and the reek of exhausted misery he'd first encountered when he'd been thrown in with the other captive sentinels in December.

"Um, him," Sandburg fumbled. "I'm Blair Sandburg, his guide."

"Guide? We weren't informed we'd be working with a sentinel."

"No problem, though, right?" Blair said brightly. "The more the merrier. Hey, we picked up your rentals. Do you need to get anything from baggage, or can we just lead the caravan to your hotel?"

The sentinel was tall and broad, with short dark hair. His guide--older but only slightly smaller, leaned over and whispered, "What say, Mac? Want to throw up and get it over with?"

The sentinel lifted his head and regarded Jim with an even gaze. "No," he said firmly. "You ready to face the locals?" He stood up and reached to steady his guide with one hand.

Jim swallowed hard and wished he hadn't. Despite the fact that he was pale (even slightly green), this foreigner was competition the way other sentinels he'd met somehow hadn't been. Show no weakness.

The three of them were almost on him before Jim realized the guide was limping badly. There was a faint, inorganic sound to his movement. Oh, crap. Another military-trained, disabled guide. God knew what kind of crazy bullshit might randomly pop up at any moment. Jim had taken half a step back to put Sandburg between himself and the strange guide when the man stuck out his hand and smiled tiredly. "Joe Dawson. This is Duncan MacLeod. We're sorry to keep you waiting." It was a passable imitation of rationality, possibly even the real thing, but Jim hesitated a moment more before taking the offered hand.

"Jim Ellison. Welcome to Cascade."

"I see you've met Megan; she's been working this case for several years now. We've worked with her before. This lovely woman behind me is Tessa, Mac's wife."

***

"--I mean, I thought the Canadian had a deal, and he was only traveling with two scruffy-looking cops and a wolf. MacLeod travels with two beautiful women! That's it. Jim, man, we have got to get you an entourage."

"Thanks, anyway," Jim said sourly. "I thought you said they wouldn't be good for anything for several days. You said, and I quote, 'You can't put a sentinel on a plane for twenty hours, drop him in a foreign country, and expect him to be able to work.' Well, guess what!"

Blair glanced in the side mirror and checked the two cars following them. Mrs. MacLeod was driving the car rented to the UK contingent and was taking everyone's luggage to the hotel to get them settled in. The other sentinel and his guide were in Megan Connor's car on the way to look at crime scenes.

"So we got lucky," Blair said uncertainly.

"Lucky. The last thing this case needs is another sentinel mucking around. What are the chances they're even half-way sane?"

Blair winced. "Better than average. Before this goes any further, I should point out they aren't all that far back. He can probably hear you."

Jim was silent for a moment. "No. MacLeod's on the phone, telling someone not to worry."

"That's gotta be some roaming charge," Blair said. "And don't do that while you're driving."

"I do this all the time. You didn't complain when I was tracking that truck by music."

"Tracking the location of something is one thing. Focusing on a conversation going on behind you is a good way to zone in traffic."

"Traffic, traffic, traffic." Jim had lightened up enough to tease him. "You're such a nag. Anyway, you're always saying I should zone more, indulge my focus--"

Blair punched him gently on the shoulder. Then he made a big show of giving in. "Fine. Whatever. You've just had this monster truck for a couple of months. You probably aren't that attached to it anyway."

"An Expedition is not a monster truck."

They stopped briefly at the hotel, a slightly upscale downtown Holiday Inn that catered to business travelers. Jim's SUV and the Chrysler sedan Inspector Connor was driving idled in the passenger drop-off loop in front of the hotel while Mrs. MacLeod turned her car over to the parking attendant and loaded the bags onto a cart. Her husband got out to hover behind her. Jim watched them, clearly listening in. Blair hoped the other sentinel wouldn't notice.

Blair slipped out and trotted back to Connor's car. The passenger-side window was down before he reached it. "Hey," he said, going for friendly and enthusiastic, "I know you're in a hurry to see the crime scenes, but do we need to grab a bite to eat first? I know about those long flights." He shook his head in mock horror.

Megan Connor, who was every bit as pretty as the fax had hinted, shook her head. "I ate on the plane," she said, again tempting him with that amazing accent. "What about you guys, Joe? I know neither of you ate."

The older man sighed. "No. Mac won't be ready for food for at least another hour. Thanks, but we might as well go straight to work."

By this time MacLeod was finished saying good-bye to his wife. He gave Blair an impatient look as he brushed past him and got into the back seat of Connor's car. Up close, he was even bigger than Blair had thought. Wow. He barely remembered to give the others a friendly wave before hurrying back Jim.

The first stop was Rainier. The crime-scene tape was still up around Dr. Watson's office. It also hadn't been cleaned up at all. Not that Blair had a clue how you'd get drops of dried blood off the spines of hardcover books.

For half an hour, MacLeod stood in the center of the room, his head bowed and his eyes half closed. His guide waited silently and nearly motionless right behind him. Inspector Connor, after a quick look at the crime scene, joined Jim and Blair in the hall and began asking detailed questions about the victim. She was quick, logical, and utterly focused. Actually, she reminded Blair a lot of Jim, and he began to shift her from the category 'fun to drool over in spare moments' to 'maybe I can get Jim to connect with this one.'

Not during the case, probably. When she finished with her questions about Dr. Watson, she fell on the list of potential targets which Blair pulled from his backpack like she was a starving dog on a steak.

Blair, free himself for a moment, turned to Jim, who was watching the other visitors through the open door. "Ok, I get it," Jim muttered. "I've been doing this for barely a year. Fine. I might miss something. But Adrian was here, and he sure as hell didn't. So what does he think he's going to find?"

Blair held in his sigh. Jim would not understand his lack of sympathy. The cop territoriality was bad enough--with competition for credit going on at the same time as competition for control of evidence and access to witnesses--but the whole sentinel baggage on top of that was just too much. Sentinels hardly ever worked together; they were rare and expensive enough that normally no one could afford to deploy more than one on a case. Even Jim and Adrian, working on the same force, rarely crossed paths for more than an occasional, brief consultation. They weren't used to cooperating in their specialty and--on the rare occasions it happened--invariably hated the idea of someone second-guessing them.

Blair lightly laid a hand on Jim's forearm. "If he's doing pattern recognition, he needs to get a picture he can compare to other crime scenes later."

"Pattern recognition?" Jim asked. This was not like the pattern recognition exercises they'd been doing in the gym.

"The kind Adrian does when he's pacing. It takes as long as it takes."

Jim glared sullenly. Blair did sigh, then. "Jim, all that matters is that we solve the case."

"Right," Jim hissed. "We don't need them to do that!"

"You want to waste a few days fighting this? You want to stand around and argue? You want to be stubborn and pissed? Fine. Great."

Jim ground his teeth. Blair patted the rigid arm beneath his hand. "Breathe," he murmured.

Jim folded his arms and went to stand down the hall, staring at the fire alarm on the wall. Inside the office, MacLeod was turning in slow circles, studying the floor. This could go on for a while. It occurred to Blair that he never had gotten his department mail. There was surely time. He could run upstairs.

He didn't. He couldn't afford to get flaky and careless. Not on the job. A single moment's inattention was all it took.

A month ago he and Jim had been undercover at a race track, trying to pass themselves as representatives of some big drug cartel. Jim, it turned out, was pretty good at it. Yet another skill, on top of the dozens Blair had already known about. But as they were leaving, Jim had been exposed to the sample. He had collapsed just as they reached the parking lot, falling to his knees in the rain, pawing at his face and repeating that he couldn't see.

Somehow, Blair had gotten him up and headed toward the truck. Fortunately, Jim hadn't seemed to understand the danger he'd been in. He'd huddled against Blair's side, muttering about losing the sample, worrying over the case, mourning the girl who had died. The drug didn't seem to worry him at all. Blair had been alarmed enough for both of them. From what he'd heard, golden made you stupid and euphoric and showed you pretty pictures. It wasn't supposed to be a depressive. Maybe the stories Blair had heard were wrong, but the other possibility was that Jim was having a non-typical reaction. Add that to the fact that the tiny exposure he'd had should not be having this much effect (which meant uptake distortion, at the very least), and things did not look good at all.

He'd had wipes in his backpack. When he got Jim into the truck, he cleaned him up as much as he could. Too little, too late. Jim was silent. Sad maybe, or afraid, Blair couldn't tell. He twined both hands around Blair's arm. To all of Blair's questions, he only shook his head.

The 'good' sentinel hospital was on the other side of town. There were hospitals closer, but Blair weighed those twenty extra minutes against the possibility that some quack who'd never treated a sentinel before would inject something poisonous into Jim. Scary. The twenty minutes won, though. Sentinels could go south so fast. Blair didn't even have any idea what golden was, never mind what it did to sentinels. Jim was silent and clingy and apparently blind. He allowed himself to be led into the emergency room, but panicked and pressed himself to Blair when the nurse reached to help lead him. Blair was frantic, babbling, repeating over and over, 'sentinel' and 'cop.' Hospital personnel were good to cops. It seemed to be enough. Although there were people waiting, they were taken into the examination area at once.

From there it went downhill. The intern who appeared had clearly never worked on a sentinel before. The PA assisting him had, and she stepped forward competently enough--but Jim refused to let the woman touch him. He was blind, but strong; she could not get close. The intern suggested restraints.

Blair panicked, just a little, at that, which frightened Jim enough that he began to hyperventilate.

"Jim, no. No. It's all right. It's just a hospital. They won't hurt you--" a ridiculous thing to say. Jim had had some of his worst times in hospitals-- "Hush, it's all right. I have you." Blair was dimly aware of the PA keeping the other hospital staff back. "Jim, pay attention. This is important." Jim shuddered and grew quiet. "These people will help you, but you have to stay still. I'll be right here. We've talked about this. You told me you could do this. I know you can do this."

Jim jumped at every touch, but allowed the physician's assistant to take his blood pressure and look into his eyes. Blair explained what had happened as coherently as he could and gave someone Simon's cell number. Jim, his eyes closed, leaned toward Blair's voice. Blair kept talking even when there wasn't anything to say.

The doctor grilled him about Jim's history and particular vulnerabilities. The PA produced a huge syringe full of saline. Blair talked Jim into leaning back and held him down while she washed his eyes again and again.

'Held him down,' except as tightly as Blair was holding his hands, Jim was holding back. 'Held him down,' except the weight of Blair's upper arm spread awkwardly over Jim's belly was only a reminder. If Jim had fought, Blair would never have been able to hold him.

When it was over, Jim curled into a ball, shivering. Blair asked for a blanket and tucked it in tight around him. He had planned, when he thought about first time he would take Jim to the emergency room, to be calm, to take charge of the situation. He had counted on Jim being afraid and sick and spiking. He had never imagined that Jim would be completely out of his head on some designer drug. He hadn't imagined feeling so terrified and desperate himself. He felt terribly alone.

A nurse came in and took some blood. Jim quaked, but didn't fight.

Simon arrived. He looked at Jim and sighed. "What happened? How bad is it?"

"They gave him a sample. The bag leaked." Blair swallowed. "I didn't realize--and then it was too late."

Simon sighed again. "It could be worse," was all he said.

"Simon?" Jim whispered.

"Yeah? How you doing, Jim?"

"Don't call Lee." Then, "Please, Simon. I don't need him."

Simon glanced at Blair in alarm. "How out of it is he?"

"I have no idea," Blair said, rubbing Jim's shoulders through the blanket. "Lee's not here, Jim. He's not coming."

"Don't let him."

"He's locked up, Jim. No bail. We're safe."

Jim nodded. "I can't see. Something's wrong, Blair."

"I know. We're working on that. Try to relax."

Jack Kelso had arrived not long after. Simon had called him. Jack coaxed Jim down into a chair where he could reach him and examined Jim himself. The doctor and two nurses watched interestedly as he ran his fingers over Jim's flushed skin, checking lymph glands and joints for tenderness and swelling. "Can you tell me if this hurts? Would you squeeze my hand? Harder.... Tell me what you can hear right now."

Jim responded calmly to Jack's questions, although the answers didn't always logically match what he'd been asked.

The doctor suggested starting an IV, for fluids at least, even if Jim didn't need any chemical intervention. Jack was adamantly against it. "He's not dehydrated. If he's not improved enough to drink something in a few hours, then yes. But not now." With his hands, Jack guided Jim back to the bed, and Blair helped him sit. "You want to fix him. You can't. All you can do right now is watch. That's frustrating, I know." Jack was managing to say this without sounding angry or patronizing, "but there's nothing you can do unless he goes into shock or loses consciousness or starts to have an allergic reaction. He's stable now, and since anything we might do might make things worse, it's best to just watch him and wait."

The doctor was not happy. Blair was silently offering prayers of gratitude.

For the next two hours, Jim slipped in and out of sleep. When he was awake, he was anxious. Mainly he was anxious that Lee not find him, but once he asked for someone named Incacha, and once he persistently demanded to know where Simon's son Daryl was. Once he complained that all the animals were gone.

It was a long night. By two he seemed alert and coherent, but miserable. He slept for a while and woke up wanting to leave. He was fine, he said. He just couldn't see. But if they weren't going to do anything about that at the hospital, then he would rather go home.

Blair, though encouraged by the coherence, wasn't stupid. He gave Jim a cup of water, wrapped him in the blanket, and told him to lie back down. "So far we're good, Jim. We're not going to push our luck. Anyway, your blood pressure is still pretty high, and the drug isn't out of your body yet."

The emergency room wasn't quiet, but Jim managed to sleep again. A little. As long as he had one hand on Blair. The PA obligingly turned the lights down and peeked on them every twenty minutes or so.

Around seven-thirty that morning an ophthalmologist came in. The little lights he shone in Jim's eyes gave him a terrible headache, but the news was good. Structurally, Jim's eyes seemed fine. He was seeing light and shapes, even if he couldn't make sense of them. Probably, there wasn't any permanent damage, although whether the golden had somehow distorted the transmissions through the optic nerve or was disrupting the way the brain processed the input was unknown.

Jim was silent throughout the exam. "So this is temporary?" Blair asked, when it was clear that Jim wasn't going to.

"I think that's most likely."

"Um, how long...?"

"I don't know. There is no information on how long this drug takes to clear the system. In addition, with sentinels it is difficult to predict responses. I understand that the amount in his blood is so small now that it isn't detectable chemically."

Blair nodded.

"Also, it's possible that the massive visual overload... You understand, I'm not an expert in sentinel vision. He may need considerable visual re-training." The look he gave Blair spoke volumes; he did not know how much trouble Jim was in and his guide needed to prepare for the worst. "We'd know more after performing a brain-scan--"

"No," Jim said, speaking for the first time. "This isn't something you can fix with surgery and you can't give me drugs, so there isn't any point."

The doctor winced. "I can refer you to a neuro-optometrist."

"No," Jim said, in the same flat voice he'd used before.

"Thank you, that would be helpful," Blair said at the same time.

Jim was cooperative until the doctor was gone. He listened carefully to the instructions, and even asked a few questions. When they were alone again, though, he said, "You're not admitting me." His voice was firm, but he hunched his shoulders slightly. Afraid.

Blair sighed. "No. I'm not. We're going home."

They hadn't stayed home. Jim got a couple hours' sleep, but that afternoon he had Blair help him shower and then went in to give Simon his report.

He wouldn't give up the case.

Jack accused Blair of being cavalier about Jim's safety. In reality, he was practically obsessed with it. Over the next five days, he followed Jim everywhere, including to the bathroom. He dragged an oversize beanbag up to the loft and slept beside Jim's bed. The number of times Jim was out of his sight could be counted on one hand with fingers left over. On Saturday Blair left Jim with Sharona while he went shopping. Twice he left Jim alone with Simon in his office.

Ironically, it was Blair who had gotten into trouble while they were separated, and despite that, even now, weeks later, there were moments when it was still hard to leave Jim alone. Jim was fine. Jim had been fine, even when he'd been blind. The last thing Blair wanted to was disrupt Jim's confidence and independence by overprotecting him.

But it was still hard. Jim didn't have a lifetime of experience watching out for the dangers that were particular to sentinels. It took less than a minute for disaster to hit. Seconds. At the station, Blair could force himself to leave Jim alone. Sometimes. And at home, of course. But when they were out working....

No. Really, it was a bad idea. Jim shouldn't be left alone when they were out on a case. Blair's mail, and pretty much anything else that might come up, could just wait. Blair leaned against the wall and waited, the picture of patience, while Jim paced and grumbled and Connor asked questions about university security.

After the office they went to the alley. The alley search was much briefer--the general chaos of outdoors and wind had scattered any traces a sentinel might be able to use. Connor read the witnesses account out loud twice while MacLeod paced to the sidewalk and back. It was already getting dark; she was squinting to read. When she closed the folder, MacLeod turned to his guide and said, "I'm sorry."

"We're just starting. This time, we get them." He took a deep breath. "Let's get some dinner. Where's the best place for Indian food?"

Blair frowned. "Indian food?" Not his first suggestion to take a pair of sentinels for dinner.

Connor and Dawson looked at each other. "Koren likes Indian food," Connor said, smiling tightly. "We'll be living on it for the next few days. Just in case."

Ok. Fine. Indian food.

There was no question of where to go, although Blair hadn't been since before he met Jim: Misal Bistro, downtown. It was by far the best. Blair reviewed the menu in his head as they went in. Chicken tikka wasn't too hot. Jim could manage that. Plain rice. Or plain naan. No problem. The tentative plan collapsed when MacLeod ordered lamb curry. Medium. Blair's mouth dropped open in surprise and Jim promptly ordered nawabi murgh, the house specialty. It was fairly hot. Resisting the urge to drag his sentinel outside and beat some sense into him, Blair ordered a bland rice dish and a sweet lasshi. Maybe he could slip some to his partner later.

"Are we done with the sentinel pissing contest so we can talk about the case?" Connor asked as the waiter left. "Or would the two of you just like to wrestle it out?" Dawson laughed outright. Jim and MacLeod looked in opposite directions, apparently the only non-threatening gestures they could think of at the moment.

Blair cleared his throat. "Ms. Connor, you've been working this case the longest. I'd really like your opinion. Just how crazy is Koren, really? How do we predict what he'll do?"

She smiled, almost seeming to notice Blair for the first time. "Megan, please. We're in for a hard ride, all right? What makes you think he's crazy?"

"Well--I saw Dr. Watson's office."

She was shaking her head. "Koren is completely sane. Kaspari has more than a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, but he won't indulge that unless Koren finds it expedient." Her eyes narrowed. "Melvin Koren is amazingly greedy and creative and he doesn't--really doesn't--give a damn about who suffers. But he's not insane. Everything he does, everyone he hurts, is to a purpose. What he wants, he takes, and if getting it is complicated or time consuming or if people get hurt, that doesn't matter. He's got no boundaries, no compassion, no weaknesses."

"You're wrong," Dawson said quietly. "He's a sociopath. He's a megalomaniac. And he's got one weakness, boredom. He'll take risks for that. Get all... whimsical."

Megan shook her head. "No, Joe. I have read the report. I have talked to your man. He was simply wrong. Koren was only interested in distracting you."

"Well, he hasn't done a very good job of *that* now has he?"

"Guys!" Blair said quickly. Reluctant silence engulfed the table.

After a few moments, Megan said softly, "You're American, so you're armed. That's good."

"Well--he is," Blair said, nodding at Jim.

MacLeod sighed. "He goes after people who get close to him. Do you have family? Because if he can't get to you he might settle for someone else."

"My mom's in California," Blair whispered.

"What about you?" Jim asked tightly. "You brought your wife into this?"

"She won't leave the hotel. The rest of my family have made themselves... unavailable."

The chill in the air wasn't so much hostility as horror. Blair swallowed. Whatever might have followed was interrupted by the arrival of dinner. As they ate, Megan began to question Blair about the possible antiquities targets again. "The Maritime Museum really is the most tempting," was her verdict. "I'd like to look at their security."

The rest of the meal was polite and police-like. It was late enough by the time it ended that even their guests were willing to pack it in for the night. Jim stood in the restaurant's parking lot, watching until the car disappeared into traffic, and then said, "Call the night desk. Tell whoever's on I want a full background on the Noel woman by tomorrow."

"What, his wife?" Blair was appalled, but he was digging out his phone nevertheless.

Jim dug out his keys and headed for the Expedition. "Oh, right," he drawled. "His wife. It's not even convincing. Come on, Chief. Let's go home."

***

Jim had thought that the hard part of dinner was getting it down. The little he'd actually managed to eat, however, sat in his stomach like lumpy napalm. Apparently 'heightened senses' included an increased awareness of his own digestion, because he could follow each squirt and twitch in minute detail. And burping--forget it. Pure pain. His system wasn't used to food this complicated or this spicy. Hell, he hadn't even put black pepper on anything in over a year. What had he been thinking?

Ha. He'd been thinking he was still the man he'd been. But everything was different now. Different now, going to be different forever. This was what Sandburg had been trying to tell him for months. Some days Jim didn't really get that until he was wallowing in regret.

Well. There you have it. This is my life.

The burning in his stomach intensified. It was like being poked with sticks from the inside. Blair always said 'don't focus on it,' regardless of what 'it' was. Jim sat up--which itself eased the pain somewhat--and listened down. Below him, Blair was just coming out of the bathroom and getting ready for bed himself.

His guide.

There were days when the knowledge that he would need Sandburg or someone like him (as if there were anyone else like him) for the rest of his life was horrifying and depressing. There were days when it seemed obvious that there was no way a situation like that was 'sustainable.' It couldn't work. Not really.

Then, on days when he was wallowing in remorse over doing something--let's call it something dysfunctional, like choking down half a plate of nawabi murgh--the idea of not having to face this alone was much more attractive.

Although, he thought, listening to Blair towel his hair, it was almost easier to adjust to Blair as a friend than as a guide. There were moments when their lives weren't colored by one sentinel disaster right after another, when they just hung out or talked about the case, and then Blair felt a lot like a buddy, or maybe another detective.

Of course, friends didn't live with you, normally. They didn't give you dirty looks when you ordered the wrong thing at a restaurant. That was more like a wife. Or--ouch--a parent.

Jim really wished he had paid attention tonight.

Blair was doing something in the kitchen now, but the rolling in his stomach was increasing speed and Jim couldn't focus any more. He considered voiding, but he couldn't even imagine how much that would hurt.

He heard Blair's feet on the stairs. Busted. He was in for a lecture, at least.

'It could be worse,' he reminded himself. If Lee had noticed at all, he would have come to laugh. Or rub Jim's nose in his stupidity. Sandburg wouldn't.

Blair was standing at the top of the stairs holding a glass of something that was strangely devoid of smell. Water? Jim doubted he could get that down. Still--

Obligingly he turned on the bedside lamp. Whether Blair had a solution to the problem or not, it was nice that he was trying.

Sandburg blinked at the light and held out the glass. "Baking soda," he said. "You don't have to finish it. And it may not work." He shrugged. "But it won't hurt you."

Embarrassed, Jim took the cool glass and looked away. "Well, I fucked up pretty good." He was surprised how bitter that sounded.

Blair shrugged and said something about "learning curve" and "experimenting" and "comparatively very new at this." Jim rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"God damn it, Sandburg." But if he did not understand, Jim could not explain it.

He smiled tolerantly and motioned toward the glass. "Try it."

It tasted like a spa, except cold. For just a moment it rolled down Jim's tender gullet like broken glass, but then it began to quench the flames below. Jim took a bigger swallow.

"So what's on for tomorrow?" Sandburg asked in his distracting-the-sentinel voice.

"The maritime museum. We'll take the out-of-towners to Watson's house. Simon has a meeting with the mayor and the chief in the afternoon, he'll want to talk to us first, and we have to check our guests in at the station. That's first." Jim closed his eyes. The pain was nearly gone. He was all but dizzy with relief. The anger was fading, too. The resentment that was left, he could ignore. Probably, he could keep from inflicting it on Blair. "Thanks," he said deliberately, and handed back the glass.

"Jim, it's not a big deal. These things happen."

"Don't start." Or maybe he couldn't keep the resentment to himself.

Sandburg, damn him, was settling in to be reasonable. "Don't what?"

"Don't be nice about things! Don't act like this is all normal! I hate this."

"I know. You have a right to be upset. I know--"

"You don't know! Why can't you--" he stopped himself. He knew in his mind that the senses were not Blair's fault. He knew, even, that most of the time it wasn't that bad. His life was ok, really. He was ungrateful and childish to bitch about things not being perfect or turning out the way he'd planned. Above all, he had no business saying this to Blair, not after what he'd done for him. Certainly not after what Blair had been through because of him.

"Jim?" Sandburg sat on the edge of the bed. He spoke very quietly, very gently. He was cheating. Jim would much rather be yelled back at than rise to meet this gentleness. "Why can't I what?"

"It doesn't matter. I didn't mean it."

"Yes, you did. Why can't I what?"

"Make them go away." Jim laughed bitterly. "Listen to me. It's been over a year. This is my life. This is what I am. I should just cope with it."

"It takes--"

"Time. Thanks. I've heard that lecture." He could not face it again right then.

"I wouldn't," Sandburg said. "Even if I could, I wouldn't take them away. I don't want you to be someone else. You don't need to be a different person. You just need a little practice and a chance to be happy."

Happy. Right. Jim closed his eyes. Blair patted his shoulder. "I'd be more worried, but you're tired and dinner was a disaster. I suspect you'll feel more like yourself tomorrow."

Blair was letting this go. It was both a surprise and a relief. Jim had been half afraid his guide would try to reconcile Jim's life tonight.

Blair stood up to leave. "Hey, get some sleep. You wouldn't want the other sentinel to show you up tomorrow because you were tired."

"Fuck off," Jim muttered. But there was surprisingly little venom behind it.

"You too," Blair called as he headed down the stairs.

The next morning was blessed by both drizzle and fog. Lovely. Jim hustled Blair out the door early. They were meeting the out of towners at the station, but he wanted to get there first so he could have a few words with Simon. As the elevator passed the ground floor, however, he heard Megan Connor's unmistakable accent checking in at the front desk. Early risers. Better and better.

Jim managed a polite, if brief, tour of Major Crime: bathroom, fax, conference room, break room. He introduced them to Brown, Lopez and Lane. Simon came out and gave the short version of the welcome speech.

MacLeod was clearly as impatient with the administrivia as Jim was. He wanted to know where the bodies were being kept. Jim doubted that MacLeod could find anything that had been overlooked by two sentinels and the medical examiner, but there was a shortage of new evidence or leads of any kind. There probably wasn't any reason not to just go over the evidence they already had, over and over.

He ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that pointed out that Jim really wasn't very experienced and MacLeod might find something.

The morgue was semi-detached, in the basement of the Patterson building that ran into police HQ on the north. As Jim led the way to the elevator, Simon captured Blair. "A word, Sandburg. I hear you don't like the morgue anyway."

"So has everybody, apparently." Blair smiled. "I'll catch up in a few minutes."

Damn. Jim set a slow pace for the elevator and listened backward as hard as he could. Actually following familiar voices was very easy, and even with his words muffled a bit by a closed door and a white noise generator, Jim heard it clearly when Simon spoke again. "So, how's he doing?" Simon had a crappy white noise generator, and he couldn't hear the difference between a cheap box that made brook-tinkling sounds and the kind of system that had enough complicated harmonics to really thwart a sentinel.

"He's good," Blair answered without hesitation. "His vision's completely back. His weight's good. His last doctor's appointment was last week. He's fine."

Jim was at the elevator now. He pushed the button and hoped that it would take its time.

"This is a pretty high-profile case. He's under a lot of pressure," Simon said cautiously.

"Uh. Yeah. Well, actually I'm sort of counting on that."

"You're counting on that?" No answer. The elevator arrived. Jim cursed silently and stepped in. "Could you be a little more specific?"

"Look, this case is important, right? Obviously. As long as we're making progress, as long as the senses are useful, Jim is going to be fine. He won't give up--he won't quit--as long as the work is important. He can cope. What he needs to know, he can learn. He just needs not to quit."

This was a stunning surprise. Sandburg continually said encouraging things, but Jim hadn't actually realized that he was confident enough to make that sort of promise to Jim's boss.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm sorry to hear that, but I want you to keep an eye on things. If you--" The rest of the sentence was lost as the elevator descended past the fourth floor where the captain from homicide was bawling out someone for mislabeling evidence. Crap.

At the morgue he waited in the hall. Dan could watch the newcomers. Hell, it was already pretty crowded around the body. So Jim leaned against the wall, pretending to be nonchalant. Being nonchalant. He had nothing to worry about. Anything to find, he'd already found. This was just an educational exercise, letting all the investigators see the body for themselves.

***

Simon considered Blair thoughtfully for a moment, then sat down on the edge of his desk. "I'm not going to pretend I'm sorry to hear that, but I want you to keep an eye on things. If you see any signs that the stress is getting to him, I want you to tell me."

"Ok," Blair said. He wasn't sure he would; the more he got to know Jim, the clearer it became that he would, for his work, find the strength to keep things together in the face of practically any disaster. Still-- "When this is over, I'd like to talk to you about some vacation time. Not much, just a few days. Maybe I can get him to go camping. Or visit his cousin again."

"Do that," Simon said vehemently.

"What? Come on, Simon, what's up? You seeing something I'm not here?"

Simon hesitated. "He's not the same."

Blair felt a suspicion of alarm. Just what had Simon noticed? "As before the golden?"

"As before the senses."

"Well, he's living differently. He's doing his job differently--"

"No. Last year, I took one of my continuing ed workshops on sentinels. His personality shouldn't have changed this much. He's had plenty of time to 'settle out.' He should be more like himself by now."

"How is he different?" Blair asked, as much to buy time as to work out how to answer. He could guess what Simon would say.

"He's quieter. He stands further away from people...." Simon stopped, seeming unsure. Blair nodded and tried to look supportive. "He takes orders too easily from you. Don't get me wrong, here. It's nothing personal. But I've only managed to get him to work with a partner once before. It worked. Eventually. Generally, getting him to even listen to someone else is like pulling teeth. Was like pulling teeth. I'm not saying he hasn't come a long way. He's, well, grumpy. Before you came on board he was either silent or nasty. He seems healthy but, frankly, Sandburg, he's just too polite to you."

Blair tried to look away, but Simon's glare pinned him. So this was what interrogation was like, he thought dizzily. He did not want to have this conversation with Simon. As glad as he was that Simon cared and had noticed, if Jim ever knew they'd talked about this he'd be mortified.

"Look, I wouldn't be having this conversation, but his last guide--"

"That's, ah, sort of the problem, Simon. I think at this point you have a pretty good idea what Brackett was like." If he didn't, that was too bad. There were some things Blair wasn't willing to say aloud with Jim in the same state, let alone the same building. Not for any reason.

"A pretty good idea."

Blair swallowed. It wasn't just about neglect. Brackett's mistreatment had crossed over into verbal and physical abuse more than once.

"And that's part of what's worrying me. The Jim Ellison I know would never have stood for...." Simon glanced away, unwilling to put words to what had happened either.

"I'm sure at the beginning he didn't," Blair said. "But later, when he wasn't just confused and overwhelmed but chronically sleep-deprived and malnourished and sick.... He's not meek, Simon. I don't have him terrorized--"

"I didn't say--"

"He doesn't know how to have a guide. What he does know is contradictory. On the one hand is all the experience that says a guide is some kind of monster that--" some kind of monster that punishes you ruthlessly if you are inconvenient or embarrassing or awkward or ignorant. "Some kind of monster. And there's all the experience that says a guide solves problems and makes thing easier." Here, too, Blair was editing. He was pretty sure that there were moments when Jim thought of him as The Source of All Hope in the Universe. "Then there's the whole resentment thing."

"Resentment thing?"

"Well, how would you feel if you found out that you would never be allowed to work without a babysitter ever again?" Worse than that even, because Jim wasn't just legally restricted to working with a guide, he needed one. Blair was pretty sure that most of the little tantrum last night was about Jim being frustrated at needing help. "He doesn't know how to deal with me, so mostly he errs on the side of caution. He's careful."

"You're saying deep down he's afraid you're Brackett?"

"Hell, no. But he doesn't always trust his impulses about me. So he's polite. He's got a lot of self control."

"When he bothers." Simon smiled.

"When he bothers," Blair agreed. "But, look, Simon, if you are worried about, well, about me, you need to talk to him about it. If you think I'm screwing something up here you should probably tell Jack Kelso." Inwardly Blair winced at that.

"Are you still in the doghouse with him, by the way?" Simon asked.

Blair hunched over and buried his hands in his hair. "God yes!" He tried to laugh. "So you don't have to worry about him taking my side just on principle. Not that you would, but hey." Blair sighed miserably.

"I don't understand. Jim did fine. It doesn't seem to have hurt him."

"Not the point. The point is I shouldn't have put the case before Jim's safety. I let him take unacceptable risks, I put too much stress on him." Blair shook his head. He had wanted nothing more than to plant Jim on the couch and keep him there. Effectively blind and, despite how well he hid it, desperately afraid that there might be permanent damage, that he might be helpless and dependent for the rest of his life. He hadn't finished recovering from his first horrible year with the senses on line and then this new disaster threatened to change his life yet again.

"But Jim was the one who wouldn't give up the case--" He broke off, and Blair looked up. Simon was frowning. "That's how he was coping with the blindness." Not a question.

"That was the effect it had. He was very involved. If I had kept him at home or treated him like he was an invalid he wouldn't have had anything else to think about."

"Damn."

"Yeah."

They were silent for a minute. Finally Simon waved his hand. "Go on. Get out of here. I'm sure your partner's waiting."

As he hurried through the bullpen, Rhonda slid a folder into his hand. "I didn't think you wanted this while they were here."

Blair peeked inside. It was the preliminary background check on Tessa Noel. "Thanks!" he said, reading the first pages as he continued to the elevator.

He had the folder innocently closed when he met the others in the hall on the way back from the morgue. "Where were you?" Jim asked. He knew what Simon meant about Jim being a little too polite. This was one of those times. "Simon wanted to talk about your schedule. I've asked for some time off after this. Any new developments with the bodies?"

"Nope--oh. Wait." Jim glanced over his shoulder. Down the hall Dan stuck his head out the door and waved them back. "Blair!" he called, "Phone for you."

The little party trailing behind Blair looked him over in surprise and stepped aside as he hurried through them down the hall.

"Blair? It's Hal Buckner. We've got a problem. One of our graduate students is missing."

Jim, of course, was livid. He snarled all the way to the car and half-way to Rainier. "Three days. How do you lose a student for three days? We're in the middle of a murder investigation here, and a potential witness disappears for three days and nobody notices? How does that happen?"

"Jim, counting the guide students and ABDs doing field work, there are over a hundred and fifty grad students in anthropology at a time. Everything's been chaos for days. We didn't even hold classes on Monday."

"Did everyone somehow not notice that this was serious--" and on. And on.

When they were paused for construction at East 53rd and Wayne St, Blair took the opportunity to distract him and passed over the file he'd been carrying. Jim--thank God--hushed abruptly and stared at the pages in puzzlement. In a couple of minutes it was their turn to drive through the narrow spot in the road. Jim handed the file back and turned the radio on.

"I don't get it," Jim said softly. "She's perfectly normal. Or that's what it looks like. What am I missing?"

Blair wondered how Jim meant 'normal.' Non-law enforcement personnel? Not some kind of weird criminal? Not a sentinel? He glanced at the file. The picture was the woman he had met the night before. She taught design and graphic arts at Napier University, but was currently on sabbatical to work on some kind of modern art commission.

"It doesn't make sense. What is she doing married to MacLeod?"

Blair repressed a sigh. He believed in cautious, but sometimes Jim seemed nearly paranoid. "I dunno, Jim. I'd guess it was for the sake of the child, but they were married in 1986 and she wasn't born until 1988--"

"What?" Jim's head snapped around and he made a grab for the file.

"Drive! Drive! Watch where you're going."

Jim ground his teeth the rest of the way.

The little caravan--Jim's Expedition and then Connor's rental--went first to the older frame house where Martin Gillman lived with four other Rainier students. Hal was waiting for them. Only one of the other residents was home--a graduate student from the School of Social Work. She let them in and then sat, silent and a little restless, on the battered couch in the living room while the two sentinels (trailing their guides and Connor) stalked slowly through the house. There was no sign that it had been tossed, no sign of a struggle. They peeked under beds, checked phone messages, and smelled the dirty laundry, but almost nothing was popped into a bag marked for forensics. After about half an hour, Brown showed up to take charge of the room and they went down stairs to talk to the housemate.

The interview was short. No, she didn't know where he was; no, she hadn't realized he was missing. They weren't close. He kept late hours. When he was dating someone he often spent two or three days at a time without coming home to sleep. She hadn't even noticed she hadn't seen him until Professor Buckner had called this morning.

Hal was apologetic. That morning the department secretary had asked him what they were going to do about the research assistants assigned to Historic Archaeology (since Dr. Watson was officially listed as their supervisor and doled out their time) and it wasn't until he had actually looked at the list that he realized that while two of the students on it had been hanging around the department like traumatized rabbits for the last two days, the third one he had not seen at all. Neither, when he asked around, had anyone else.

The next stop was Hargrove Hall to check out Gillman's office space. He shared a tiny room with another graduate student and the spillover from the library upstairs. All the students who had space in the basement of Hargrove shared it with either library or artifact storage.

Gillman's officemate was there when they arrived. Jim flashed his badge and said, "Miss, would you mind stepping outside," in that official, polite-but-stern way that had her scampering out like a mouse. Blair snagged her gently as she passed and made placating motions. They would need to talk to her later.

The office was small and cramped. There was a computer, but it was shared. With Jim and MacLeod in the room, there wasn't any room for anyone else, so Blair, Connor, and Dawson waited outside with the shocked first-year graduate student.

"Is this Mr. Gillman's desk?" Jim called out. He pointed to the one the girl hadn't been sitting at.

"Um. Yeah. He doesn't use it much, though. I think he studies in the library, mostly."

Jim put on a pair of gloves and began to investigate the drawers. MacLeod gently ran his hands along the books stuffed into the ancient, metal bookshelves. "You smell it, Jim?" he asked suddenly.

"Yeah, but so what? It's some kind of dirt, right? It just tells us he's been here."

MacLeod grew still and closed his eyes. "Nope. It's localized. There's something...." He seemed to forget about the rest of the sentence and the small crowd watching. After a moment he went to the computer.

The student--Blair was trying to remember her name, but he hadn't spent a lot of time at the department this year--leaned toward the door and said helpfully, "We can't save to that computer. Anything he wrote there he would have to put on disk."

MacLeod didn't seem to hear. He tipped up the monitor and pulled a folded piece of thin paper from under the base. He held it up triumphantly.

"Yes," Jim said.

From outside the door, it was impossible to see what was on it as the paper was unfolded, but at once, Jim held it out irritably and demanded, "Sandburg, what the hell is this?"

It looked like a charcoal rubbing of some kind of small plaque, but its shape was irregular and the language wasn't English or any Blair recognized. "It's an archaeology thing. I don't do archaeology things."

"Is this language Indian?" MacLeod asked. "Does this show an artifact?"

The archaeology grad student leaned around Blair. "The Indians this far north never had a written language. Anyway, Martin never worked on native stuff. European settlements. Russians. The early timber trade."

"Well, it's not Russian," Blair said. It didn't look like anything he'd seen before. It didn't look like something that belonged in this part of the world.

"Are we even sure it's Martin's?" Megan asked.

Both sentinels nodded. "The dirt's kind of pungent. The same stuff was all over his room, his clothes...."

"Is it local dirt?" MacLeod asked Jim.

"It's not dirt I'm familiar with."

"Where was he working?" Megan asked.

"I don't know. I hardly ever saw him. Downtown somewhere. Or in the waterfront district."

Blair dug out his cell and called the department secretary upstairs. It took only a moment to learn that Gillman had been working with Dr. Watson on the Cantor site.

"I thought they weren't digging until summer," Jim protested.

"Well, yes and no. You have to do a lot of digging before you know where to dig. Or something. Cantor was funding the dig this summer himself, as a kind of public service. Or to be sure that they finished before he was ready start construction on his new building."

The excavation site was next to a construction site already in progress. All the signs on the fences were marked "Cantor Construction Limited." It took a few minutes to find someone at the construction site who could request a security guard to come out with a key to the area blocked off for the archaeologists. When they finally got in, they weren't sure what to do next. Both Jim and MacLeod agreed that the mud smelled 'right' but there was a lot of it. There was almost an acre of chewed-up ground, some of it broken by deep, wide, square holes, tall stacks of two-by-sixes, or digging equipment.

"This looks like it's been bulldozed," Megan said. She lifted up one foot. Her low heel came free of the mud with a soft squish. "I thought this was some kind of archaeological site."

Blair looked around. What could they possibly be looking for here? "If you know that the dirt has been disturbed to a specific depth, stratification is useless. You can bulldoze everything that's been moved around and run it through a strainer to find any good bits. I think this was a parking lot." There was a heap of what looked like broken blacktop over to one side.

"'Good bits' being an anthropological technical term?" Megan asked, stepping around a puddle of standing water. She held up the baggy with the charcoal rubbing in it. "Anybody holler if you see one of these!"

Blair wished he'd done a better job of reading Watson's notes on this project, but he had only glanced through them once he was sure the site wasn't a point of contention for either the department or the owner. He would remedy that as soon as possible.

They split up. Blair and Jim walked along the north fence, MacLeod and Dawson took the south. Jim and Blair moved much faster. Dawson was having trouble on the uneven and slippery ground. Megan stayed to the rear. After about forty-five minutes, they were all clustered around a square excavation in the south-west quadrant.

It was about six feet deep and eight feet across and covered with a tarp held down at the edges with broken chunks of concrete. When they peeled back the tarp they could see a ladder going down. Jim and MacLeod stood on opposite sides of the pit, nodding reluctantly at one another. This was the spot that showed the most recent signs of human activity. With all the drizzle they'd had that morning there was no way to be sure how recent, but probably since the weekend. Highly suspicious, since the project director's time of death was estimated to be Sunday afternoon and her assistant hadn't been seen since the previous Friday.

While Jim and MacLeod were trying not to look like they were shouldering ahead to be first, Megan shot Blair a smile and slipped down the ladder before both of them. "Hey, this cavity to the side is some kind of tunnel! Come on gents, hop to!"

Jim shot her a dark look, but MacLeod only seemed amused by her. Dawson shrugged and called back, "Have a nice time in the pit, Meg. Shame I can't come with you."

The sentinels entered the tunnel first. Both of them were tall enough that they had to stoop quite a bit. Even Megan was enough taller than Blair that she had to duck her head. She took a flashlight from her pocket and turned it on. It had a haze filter on it, so that it spread a diffuse light without creating sharp shadows. Blair, who was digging for a similar (but larger) flashlight in his backpack, said, "You've worked with sentinels before."

"Now and then." Gingerly she reached out and touched the packed earth that formed the wall of the tunnel. "Mac and Joe. I was sent to Edinburgh after Koren showed up there last fall. Later, we all met in Madrid." She glanced over her shoulder. "We share a certain single-mindedness about this case."

"I'd noticed," Blair muttered.

"What the hell is this?" Jim demanded from ahead. A moment later he burst out into a larger room thinly illuminated by the soft glow of sentinel flashlights. There was a dark pile of--not dirt?--off to the right and some kind of machine to the left.

"That's a coal furnace," MacLeod said. "A heater. We're in somebody's old basement."

"Damn," Blair said. "I mean, Watson's initial report said they'd found the remains of the old waterfront, but I never guessed.... This is incredible!"

Megan looked at him. "You are kidding. This is a basement, not King Tut's Tomb. It's not even a very nice basement."

Which was true, but Blair had been hanging out with archaeologists since he was an undergraduate. If you had the right priorities this was very cool.

"There's a door over here--" Jim started, but almost mid-word he and MacLeod snapped around and faced the way they'd come. "What's--?"

Without warning, MacLeod dove between Blair and Megan, shoving them out of his way as he raced back into the narrow tunnel. Jim charged after him. Megan glanced once at Blair, drew her gun, and followed. Belatedly, Blair realized that the sentinels had heard something. His heart sank. He could not guess what they'd heard, but it wasn't good.

Blair broke free of the tunnel into the daylight of the open pit in time to see MacLeod leap off the ladder snarling. Jim was right behind him. Blair was too short to see what was going on up top until he was half-way up the ladder, and what he saw made him pause with surprise.

MacLeod was kneeling. Not in the mud, but on top of someone who was almost completely coated in it. Megan stood over them, the barrel of her gun inches away from the prone figure's head. Jim was a couple of feet away, his gun pointed straight up, his eyes scouring the horizon. The four figures were silent and almost completely still.

Damn, Blair thought.

He finished climbing the ladder and took a longer look at MacLeod's prisoner. Even filthy, the face was recognizable. This was the man whose prints Jim had found. Evan Kaspari.

His blood ran cold. "Where's Joe?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Right here." Blair looked, and had to look again to register what he was seeing. The prisoner was filthy with the mud from the dig site. Joe Dawson was practically camouflaged with it. He sat in a puddle not four feet from Blair and he was almost invisible unless you knew what you were looking for. There was even thick, grey mud in his beard.

From his position on the prisoner, MacLeod asked, "Anything?"

"No," Jim said. "Nobody. Blair, call dispatch. We need a prisoner transport and a couple of guys to seal this place off."

Megan slowly took a step back. "You need to make the arrest."

Jim put his gun away and hauled Kaspari to his feet while Blair called dispatch and then Simon. Jim read the prisoner his rights, then held him, cuffed, while MacLeod performed a search.

Blair put away his phone and dug out his box of wipes, which he handed to Joe. "What, uh, happened?"

"Prince Charming over there took a shot at me from across the street. He missed, but me diving for cover looks exactly like me dropping over dead. He came over to make sure he'd finished the work this time and," a shrug, "I knew I would only have to hold him for a moment." He smiled. It wasn't a triumphant look. It was predatory. Blair shuddered inwardly. He would never get used to cops.

Jim suddenly spun Kaspari around and dropped him to his knees facing the street. "Don't move," he said sharply. Then he stepped between Kaspari and MacLeod and gently backed the other sentinel up three steps. "You even think about messing up this bust, and I will break your arm." He said it nicely.

"Who? Me?" MacLeod said sweetly. He slipped free of Jim, came over to Joe and squatted beside him in the mud. Joe was using Blair's wipes to scrape off glops of mud. It wasn't terribly effective. "Interesting technique."

"What, bait?"

MacLeod closed his eyes briefly, then took a deep breath and said, "Look at you. You're a mess. I swear, I can't take you anywhere."

Joe paused mid-wipe and held out a handful of muck. "Mac, you're pushing it."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"You know," Jim said, "This guy'll take a while to process. You have time to go back to the hotel and get cleaned off."

MacLeod glanced at Kaspari, kneeling in the mud and apparently as unaffected by his arrest as a statue. "No," he said.

"Sandburg could give Joe a lift, then. I'll be riding with the prisoner."

Blair swallowed hard. Jim was suggesting they separate for half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. While on duty. While in the field. In the middle of a hot and dangerous case.

Jim was not a child. He was required by Occupational Safety and Health regulations to have a guide, not to have one in his presence at all times. Blair would be leaving him with two cops, one of them a sentinel, the other experienced at working with them.

All the guides would be gone.

Jim was not a child. Blair could not stand over him all the time for the rest of their lives. They were just transporting a prisoner. Blair swallowed again. "Actually, yeah, the hotel isn't even five minutes from here."

***

Blair spread a towel over the passenger seat. Jim would still need to get the interior cleaned. Joe, lifting himself up and in, had the same thought. "How crazy is this mess going to make your partner?" he asked.

"It's a brand-new vehicle. It will break his heart. But given how much time we are probably going to spend at this construction site for the case, I think it's going to end up trashed regardless."

"Good point." He was silent for the short trip. Blair opened his mouth to start some kind of conversation twice, but was halted by the scowl Joe was wearing. Generally, Blair thought of making arrests as a good thing but, come to think about it, nobody had seemed happy.

Mrs. MacLeod yelped when she opened the door at their knock. "My god! Joe, what happened. Mac--?"

"Is fine, is fine." He caught her hand and pressed it. "Tessa, we caught Kaspari."

She froze for just a minute, then stepped back and let them in the door. "Koren?" she whispered.

"Not yet," he ground out. "But we'll get him." He paused to pat her hand and then turned toward one of the doors on the other side of the room. "I'll just be a few minutes. We need to get back to the station."

For a moment she stood very still. Her eyes were very wide and she seemed half a minute away from bursting to tears, but then she turned to Blair and smiled thinly. "Will you sit down, Detective."

"Blair, please," he corrected. "I'm a guide, not a cop." The suite was decorated in business home-away-from home, with the small living room blending into a kitchen area and a desk/communications jack set up on opposite sides. It was comfortable and informal, if small and bland. Blair sat on the flower-patterned couch.

"Would you like something to drink? All I can offer is water; the hotel has a shopping service, but they haven't made today's delivery yet."

"Water would be great," Blair said. He wasn't thirsty, but sharing something to eat always helped cultivate interactions. "Thanks."

"Do you mind if I ring home?" she said, filling one of the bland hotel glasses with water from the fridge.

"No, go ahead."

It took a moment to put the call through. Transnational used a lot of extra numbers. Blair spent a minute looking out the windows, trying not to pay attention, or at least not look like he was paying attention.

"Mary. I've told you not to answer the phone that way." A pause, and then, "Yes, we miss you, too. No, I haven't seen Mickey Mouse. I haven't left the hotel. Darling, is your Aunt Rachel--? Yes, I would like to speak to her." Another pause, and then, "They've caught Kaspari. Anything can happen now, I need you to be careful.... Well, yes. Yes. Yes, do.... I will.... You too." Slowly she set down the phone and sighed. "Our daughter is staying with her uncle and his guide in York. Duncan was afraid, with Koren surfacing again, both Mary and me in the same place might be too much temptation. He likes to make things personal."

"I've, um, seen some of the records. It's hard to believe someone that awful exists."

"He exists," Tessa said sharply. "Don't doubt it." She stopped and sat heavily on one of the chairs facing the fake fireplace. "How can I explain? A... a coworker, a close friend of the family... he's a, well, you would say forensic anthropologist with the police. When They first came to Edinburgh, we didn't know who They were. It was attempted extortion and terroristic threatening, but we didn't know who was behind it. Duncan was working the case, but they didn't have enough clues. Adam was working on this body they pulled out of a ditch. A woman. Horrible things had been done to her." She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and hunched forward. Blair almost offered to change the subject, but she continued quickly. "Adam recognized Kaspari's work. He'd been to a conference in Eastern Europe the year before, where he was a case study. With Kaspari identified, suddenly the police knew exactly what they were looking for. But one of the other men in the department told everything--everything, you understand--to the newspapers for money. Koren wasn't ready for his identity to be known. He had planned his little terror campaign very carefully. He was furious. The next morning, They snatched Adam coming out of his house."

Blair clamped his teeth down and tried to look calm. He'd seen the pictures of the police scientist who had been tortured in Edinburgh. What did you say to someone who was that man's friend?

"For almost two weeks they kept him. He stayed alive only because he amused Koren. Because he kept him distracted. Because he offered him information in exchange for time alive. He escaped. Barely. It was eight months ago, and he is not the same." Somehow, despite the terrible things she was saying, she met Blair's eyes calmly. "In December Koren was spotted in Madrid. Our police sent a team down. He abducted one of the team members and beat him to a bloody pulp as a message. He was meant to die, but he didn't. He's still in rehabilitation for brain damage."

"Oh, god. How awful." It turned out Blair did know what to say after all. He closed his eyes briefly, trying not to imagine how he'd feel if a psycho grabbed one of his co-workers--Joel, say, or Rhonda--and beat them into brain damage. He'd read the report from Madrid, too. The victim had been listed as a civilian intern still in college.

"Koren is real. They are more evil than you can imagine. Don't think for a minute that they aren't exactly that bad."

Blair nodded, wishing he had not left Jim alone.

***

After Kaspari had been fingerprinted and photographed, they took him away to wash and strip-search him. They had a while--twenty minutes anyway. Enough time for Jim to check messages, see what was in his in-box, have a word with Simon. He was strangely reluctant to leave MacLeod alone. 'With Megan Connor' wouldn't count, because she couldn't smell him.

Jim could. He reeked of distress and fury. Anyone this upset, he wanted to keep an eye on. So he took Connor and MacLeod upstairs to the break room and fed them candy and chips and asked Connor about jurisdictional differences in procedure she'd noticed while doing all that traveling. His goal was to distract MacLeod a little. He didn't need to explore the problem, he already knew it. There was nothing that could be done to help, so best to just go on.

Jim had very nearly lost his own guide barely a month before. He knew where all that distress was coming from. They were not going to talk about it. Jim could barely deal with his own experience, still pretty raw and horrifying. That first, horrible moment when he realized that the pizza had been eaten and Blair was gone, that was still too much to think about.

The smell--too sweet, too sharp, nauseating--like Lisa Hughs' smell, but oh, god, so much stronger. Even over the smell of gasoline (and normally Blair would have been having a fit over Jim staying in a room with a gasoline leak, but then he'd been out of his mind and shooting at cops) he could smell it.

Then Blair, finally, within Jim's grasp, except it was too late. He wasn't talking any more, he wasn't moving except where the thunder of his heart--too fast, too hard, and starting to falter--pounded through his body.

All through that horrible trip to the hospital and the horrible hour and a half he'd sat in emergency's waiting room, Jim had been bereft and consumed by rage. As soon as he had looked into Lisa's eyes he had understood this poison, this trap for the innocent and unready who couldn't protect themselves. Golden. Pure evil.

Blair hadn't been innocent, though. He'd only been good. He hadn't been deceived in the usual way. He hadn't been depressed or desperate or stupid or pressured. The poison had come after him. It had hunted him down. The best man Jim had ever known--

He had kept thinking, that long afternoon in the waiting room, of the day they had met. Blair had come--as a favor to a man he barely knew, despite being heartbroken at his own shattered plans--to look into a problem and see if he could do anything to help. He had been kind and intelligent. He had been compassionate and fair. He had understood the unbearable, exhausting insanity that Jim's life had become, and he had barely even been fazed by it. He had saved Jim's life (and his soul), and he'd asked nothing in return. Well, except that Jim cooperate and let him do his job. Jim could sympathize with that. He felt the same way about his own job.

He listened to the doctors order blood tests and argue about the results. He listened to them intubate him and hook up the machine that breathed mechanically. Really, he was not half as good at the sentinel thing as Blair was at his end of it. If there was anyone in the world Jim ought to be able to protect, surely it would be his own guide. By proximity if nothing else.

It was only much later--hours, probably--sitting beside Blair in the private room he'd been given as a serious case with no medical precedent, that Jim had noticed that without Sandburg he was completely helpless and immobile. It had crossed his mind that Blair wasn't aware of him and wouldn't be for hours, and now was the time, if he were going to, to go home and shower and collect some of Sandburg's things, at least some of his own music to listen to and his walkman, although Jim could not read him any of his books.

Only Jim could not drive. He could make a guess at the location of the bathroom by its smell, but he could not even walk down the hall to a vending machine. For five days Sandburg had been his eyes and his protection. Jim had been mobile and clean and fed, he had even continued to work on the case and made considerable progress on it, but only because his partner had been there. Blair had done the things Jim could not do himself and had talked him through the things he had to do himself.

When Jim held his hands up he couldn't make out the shapes, just uneven gold streaks against a harsh golden background that was too bright to look at for long under the hospital's fluorescents. At the moment vision was good for exactly nothing, and that might not change. Ever. It would be as hard to learn to be blind as it had been to learn to be a sentinel. He could not do it without Blair.

Without even being able to watch shadows to mark the time, he had no idea how long it was before he heard a familiar voice in the hall outside. He would have liked to get up and shut the door, but he'd been lucky to get across the unfamiliar room even once, so he stayed where he was, waiting.

At the soft hiss of rubber wheels in the doorway, Jim said, "Go away."

"Jim, it's Jack--"

"I know who you are. My hearing is fine."

"Jim, I don't want to argue--"

"I don't care what you want."

A sigh. No sound of retreat. Jim ground his teeth. Jack talked anyway. "Jim. Blair and I had a professional disagreement. It doesn't mean I don't care--"

A burning, then, in Jim's eyes. Apparently they couldn't see, but they could still cry.

"How is he doing?"

It took Jim a moment to collect himself enough to answer. "The doctors tell me it doesn't look too bad. They think he'll come off the respirator in twelve hours or so and his EKG is ok. Out in the hall, they tell each other they don't have a clue. They've never seen anything like this, they don't know what it can do, if there will be permanent damage." Golden. Jim was supposed to have stopped that stuff. He was supposed to get it off the street and the suppliers behind bars before it spread beyond Cascade and murdered more innocents. "You were right. I should have stayed home. I can't do my job, I can't even--"

"Jim, this wasn't your fault."

"The hell it wasn't! There was so much drug on that pizza--and he couldn't smell it. There was no way--"

Suddenly, although Jim hadn't heard the chair move, Jack was beside him, capturing his hands and hissing in his ear, "Stop it right now. Your guide is alive and he is listening to you--"

"He's unconscious. He may never wake up."

"He is still listening for you. Believe me." Jack pushed a tissue into his hand. "Believe me," he said more gently. "He knows you're here. I'm sure he sleeps listening for you by now."

It occurred to Jim that this might be a chance to do something for Blair. "He really does care, you know."

"Of course I know that," Jack said impatiently. "That was never the problem. He was arrogant and short sighted and ignorant, thinking an exposure as serious as yours could be handled casually. I still don't think your health was good enough for--But that's not the point. He refused to ground you because he could not say no to you, not because he didn't care if it hurt you or not. On balance, with this one exception, Blair has been a model guide these last few months. Frankly, you have progressed beyond my most optimistic expectations. A lot of that's him. He's been very good for you. So cut him a break, hmmm? Don't write him off yet."

Jack had stayed for a while longer, saying other things, reasonable, comforting things Jim hadn't bothered to remember afterward. Some time later--Jim couldn't guess how much later--he heard Adrian and Sharona squabbling in the hall. It was a comforting sound. For a fraction of a second he was back at the PD on a normal day with Blair down the hall hitting on one of the dispatchers.

But then Adrian was hovering nervously in the doorway, positively radiating pity, and Jim was back in hell, listening to the machine breathe for Blair.

Adrian didn't say anything, but after a few moments he came and sat down beside Jim. He hadn't realized there was a second chair. "I don't smell it," he said at last.

"Smell what?" Jim asked. He could smell the hospital, the disinfectants, the sicknesses up and down the halls. He could smell the drug, leaking out of Blair's pores.

"Death," Adrian answered.

"We can smell that?"

"Yeah. But I don't smell it today."

They sat in silence for a while.

"You know, Sharona's out in the hall. If you gave us your key, we could drop by your place, pick up your toothbrush, some clothes, whatever."

"Blair's walkman."

"Yeah. We could do that."

Jim dug in his pocket, produced the keys.

At some point afternoon turned to evening. Simon visited and talked about the case. Sharona returned with a small bag of supplies and a sandwich from Burgher's Deli. The next morning Simon picked him up on the way in; he'd been hoping for some info on the inquiries he'd made the night before. Jim only hesitated a moment before going with him. Despite what Jack had said, Blair couldn't be aware of Jim. Nothing more could be done for him, but for every other good and unsuspecting soul who might be hurt by golden--Jim could do something for them.

The bust had gone down before noon, but Jim hadn't been able to get a ride back to the hospital until almost three. By then he could make out the bed and find Blair's shoulder by sight, but his face was still a yellow smear. No detail, and no real depth perception.

Blair was sleeping normally and breathing on his own. Jim returned to the chair he'd occupied all night and hid his face in his hands. He felt as if he were falling.

"Jim?" Jim's eyes snapped open, but of course he could not see if Blair was awake. He reached out with his hands. One of them was captured at once. The grip was weak, but, oh, lord, it was Blair. "Jim, what's wrong?" The voice was quiet and too dry to be familiar, but by then Jim could hear his heart picking up. Awake. Conscious. Recognizing him.

"Jim, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing." He found Blair's face with his free hand, leaned forward and burrowed his face in the tangled curls. Real and solid even though he couldn't see them. "It's all right, Chief. Just relax." Hot tears ran down his face and disappeared. Blair caught him, held on. It took a few minutes for Jim to collect himself. He settled back, patting Blair's arm, trying to look calm.

"What happened?" Blair asked hoarsely. "The doctor said 'accidental overdose,' but I wasn't taking anything."

Jim sighed. "Do you remember the pizza?"

A puzzled nod.

"It was full of that drug. They were trying to send a message. You nearly died."

There was a short silence. Jim desperately wanted to see his face. "Shit," Blair said.

"I'm sorry--"

"Hush. It's ok," Blair muttered. Jim waited for more, but Blair had fallen asleep a few minutes later.

It was two more days before he could take Blair home. Or, rather, get Simon to drive them home, since Jim still couldn't see well enough to drive. They'd taken the rest of the week off; Blair smelled all right, but he was tired and headachy and when he didn't have trouble staying awake, he had trouble sleeping.

Jim spent much of the time listening to Blair move and calming down. Sorting things out. For cops, your partner was your partner, and that meant something even if you didn't have anything in common. For sentinels, the guide was what made it possible to get by in the world from one day to the next. And friends, they were supposed to mean something to you, right? Ok, yes, Jim had avoided having a partner and he had taken a guide only as a last resort, and he hadn't really wanted any more friends--certainly not since the friends he'd had had all started looking at him funny since the sentinel diagnosis came out.

As a partner, there was no problem sharing a stake-out with Sandburg. As a guide, Jim was ok with that part. Mostly. Any problems Jim had certainly weren't because of Blair. As a friend, despite constantly nagging about what Jim ate and where he breathed and what he wasn't supposed to be touching, he didn't even seem to notice the sentinel thing most of the time. It wasn't an issue. Sometimes he seemed to think Jim was somehow physically or emotionally fragile from all those months with Brackett, but he didn't make a big deal about that, either. It never made him pull away.

Jim wasn't always clear what he wanted from Sandburg, but there was never any doubt that he did want to keep him around. Things could go on this way for a very long time.

According to the file, MacLeod and Dawson had been together for nearly fifteen years. Jim could almost picture fifteen years with Sandburg. He could not picture how he would keep it together if, after they'd been together all that time, somebody took a shot at Sandburg.

MacLeod didn't say anything. Which was fine, probably. Talking couldn't fix this. But Jim really didn't like the way he picked through his potato chips, gently breaking them into small pieces and piling them to the side.

***

Blair and Joe came off the elevator just in time to see Kaspari being led into one of the interrogation rooms at the end of the hall. "Oh, good," Joe said. "We haven't missed any of the fun."

Simon turned the corner and nodded a greeting to Blair, pointing to the door next to the one the prisoner had used. "This is cool," Blair said. "We've got one of the good interrogation rooms. Look."

"Very nice," Joe agreed. A large, 1-way mirror filled one wall. Macleod, Megan, and Henry Brown sat in the semi-darkness, watching the window like a big-screen TV. On the other side, Kaspari (in a paper jumpsuit and chained) sat at a small table while Simon and Jim considered him from opposite sides of the room.

"Right to an attorney," Jim was saying. "I don't object to you having one. Frankly, you're going to need one. So, I'm asking you one last time--"

Kaspari looked up. His eyes were both cold and unconcerned. "No," he said.

Jim shrugged. "Fine. Let's start with this." He dropped a picture on the table. "Where's Martin Gillman?"

Kaspari stared disinterestedly into the distance and shrugged.

Jim leaned over him. "Are you having trouble with the language? Because we could get an interpreter."

Another shrug.

"If Martin Gillman is still alive," Simon said, "That's one less count of conspiracy and accessory to murder."

Kaspari laughed. "Is this where you offer me a deal?"

Jim walked behind Kaspari, watching him with narrowed eyes. Listening. To Blair, he looked puzzled, but by what he couldn't guess. "Right now, in the USA, you're looking at one count each of murder, attempted murder, assault, resisting arrest, and kidnapping. Well, no, two counts of kidnapping." He leaned closer. Blair suspected that everyone else thought he was being intimidating, but Blair saw his nose twitch. Smelling him. "Deal? We can't offer you a deal. Not after that murder. You're looking at the death penalty. As crazy as you are, I think you'll get it." Jim straightened and folded his arms. "In America, anyway. But, see, the UK doesn't believe in the death penalty. And they have a very convincing prior claim. We might allow you to be extradited. After we finish trying you. I hear British prisons aren't even that bad."

"He wouldn't," MacLeod hissed through his teeth.

Jim, still standing behind the prisoner, glared at the window and shook his head once.

Kaspari leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He looked bored.

That inauspicious start was actually pretty representative of the next six hours. Jim and Simon went round and round, asking questions, threatening, discussing other, older crimes. It seemed to Blair that Jim didn't really expect Kaspari to cooperate or even be reasonable, but Blair couldn't tell what he did expect to get.

It was after six when Jim and Simon came out, indicating to the waiting uniforms to take Kaspari down to holding. "You should have let me take a shot at him," MacLeod growled.

"Oh, no," Megan said sourly, "me. Nobody would ever believe me for roughing up a prisoner."

"It wouldn't do any good." Jim scowled at MacLeod. "Have you ever smelled him? Did you hear him? No fear. No interest. No guilt at all. He's not all in there."

"That's not actually a surprise," Joe murmured. "Your Doctor Watson, that was Koren letting Kaspari play."

The hairs on the back of Blair's neck stood up. "So, Kaspari's a dead end," he said quickly, changing the subject. "Fine. That's still one down and only two more to go. We need to find Martin Gillman, assuming he's still alive--"

Megan sighed, muttered, "Even if he's not alive."

"We need to figure out what Koren wants with the dig site."

They trooped over to forensics to see what Serena had been able to make of the charcoal rubbing. The dirt smudges on it matched the excavation, "Not that I didn't have three sentinels telling me that already." As for the image itself, no one recognized the writing, not even Adrian. They'd sent copies out to a couple of Middle-Eastern and Asian language experts, but so far, nothing.

They stayed until almost nine, Megan, Blair, and Jim looking over Watson's notes and records again. At the same time MacLeod, Joe, and Henry went over the information they had on Martin Gillman and the anonymous body still sitting in the morgue. When they finally gave up, they didn't know any more than they did when they'd started. Well, actually they knew a lot more than when they started. They just didn't have any better idea about the case.

7:30 the next morning found them back at the dig-site, along with Simon and Sidney Graham, an archaeologist from the university. The uniforms on guard duty looked tired and bored--apparently nothing had happened overnight. The hole appeared as they had left it. Sidney looked it over, looked the police contingent over, and sighed. "I don't know what you're looking for here. Archaeological sites people are willing to kill for aren't very common in this country."

"I think our best possibility is that there's something down here Koren wants," Simon said. "But we can't rule out the chance that there's a body down here."

"Yeah. Ok. Let's take a look."

One at a time and carefully they all crowded down into the pit. Jim went first, then Sidney who received a bundle of tools and lights passed down by Megan. Joe went down on Mac's back, and Blair wasn't sure which impressed him more; the physical strength involved or the absolutely casual and silent cooperation.

Lit by electric lights the narrow tunnel seemed less ancient and mysterious and more like the spidery crawl-space under someone's house. There was a long wait while Sidney looked over the first chamber. Chamber. Ha. It was a ruined bit of shallow basement.

"I'm beginning to get why Adrian has a thing with being underground," Jim muttered in Blair's ear.

Blair patted his shoulder. "Keep breathing. We're ok."

Jim glanced up and then away and whispered, "Yes, but the only thing we can do is watch him." Startled, Blair glanced at Jim, who appeared to be innocently studying a brick. Oh. He wasn't used to his partner holding hushed conversations with other sentinels like this. It shouldn't surprise him, but somehow it did.

"I don't know. But we needed an archaeologist, and this is the one we've got."

Blair took a guess about the topic of the conversation. "Sidney wasn't directly involved with this project," he whispered. "That's why Brown talked to him."

Sidney called them over to a hole in the base of the south wall. Several of the bricks had been removed and stacked to the side, while the hole itself was shored up with wood. "This has to be our team's excavation, although the progress notes were hard to follow."

Jim went first into the hole. Blair held Sidney back for a few seconds, not wanting Jim to feel too crowded by strangers. Then, one by one, they slipped into the narrow opening. The way was about six feet long and roomy, but curved, so you didn't know until the end how far you were from getting free. Blair resisted the urge to rush out the end and ignored the dry, brown taste of dirt in his mouth. Calm. Normal. I am relaxed.

The next chamber was much larger, although he couldn't make out the shape because Jim was trying to wedge one of the electric worklights into a niche and the shadows danced all around the room as the light moved.

The ceiling wasn't too low, although some supports had fallen in and one apparently non-structural wall had caved in completely.

Simon took a look around, patted Blair on the head and said, "Great. Have fun. I have some real work to do. I'll see you later."

They searched the room carefully, dropping samples of dirt, bits of wood, and chunks of brick into sample bags that would, in order to ensure that nothing was overlooked in such unusual evidence, be sent to Rainier and a private laboratory in Florida that specialized in historic samples as well as the police department.

They didn't actually find anything that seemed particularly useful. Watson's notes had listed it as the basement of a dry goods store. Mostly it held bolts of crumbling cloth that both sentinels decreed hadn't been touched in decades. Sidney inserted a probe and took a core sample of one end anyway.

When it was clear that nothing in the room was going to bust the case wide open, Brown dug out a copy of Watson's report. "It says she thinks there was another basement along the northeast wall here," he said.

Sidney nodded. "She didn't have anything exact on the location of the next building. The first probe they made caved in a day later. We need a stable location to dig into the next basement. Her guess was most of this northwest wall, but..." He picked up a hammer and smiled suddenly. "Shall we see why sentinels on digs get paid more than project directors?" He tapped the bricks of the northwest wall experimentally.

Clank. Clank. Sidney's tapping was rhythmic, but not loud. Blair found it kind of flat sounding. "Slower," MacLeod instructed. "Let it echo."

Clank. Clank. Clank. Blair wondered what they were hearing. Clank.

"Stop," Jim panted. "I need a minute."

"Jim?" Blair asked softly, leaning in. "Headache?"

"No, I just," Jim lowered his voice. "I can hear all the dirt above me. God, Chief, it--"

"Ok. Ok. Breathe," Blair whispered back. "Does it sound unstable? Do we have a problem here?"

"No, I just... It's only a few feet, but there's still so much of it!"

"Ok. Ok." He rubbed Jim's shoulder. "Just take a minute."

"I have it," MacLeod said suddenly. He stood up and crossed the room, stroking the brick wall with the back of his hand. "You want to push through there." He pointed toward the western corner. "It's fairly solid and there's just a foot or so of dirt between you and the next wall."

There was movement from the tunnel behind them and Simon appeared. "Lunch," he called. "There's pizza outside, if anybody's interested."

"Somebody take lunch," Sidney said. He and Henry were crouched beside the west corner, picking at the mortar with small, sharp tools. "Only a couple of people can work at a time here."

Blair took the opportunity to get Jim out of the pit. He tried not to look like he was hurrying, but when he smelled mud and saw sunlight, he nearly broke out cheering. He dusted Jim off, fed him bottled water and pizza, and tried not to smell worried. Jim, for his part, calmly gave Simon their report (such as it was) and argued with Megan about what good mucking about in the basements of some buried over buildings was doing their case.

"Well," Blair asked, looking at the remains of his fourth piece of pizza, "Are you ready to trade out and give the others a break?"

"Yeah. Just about." He grabbed one more small piece and shoved half of it in at once.

"Jim, if you don't want to go back in there," Blair started more softly.

"I'm fine," Jim said. "Just, you know, as long as you stay close."

Blair smiled inwardly, hiding the surge of joy that followed Jim's casual request and its confident assumption that Blair would provide it. So much progress, so quickly. He could do anything, this man. Anything.

The afternoon seemed slow and tedious, although they made considerable progress. The bricks in the west corner were carefully scraped free and lifted out, revealing a wall of fairly soft dirt that they took turns scraping out with trowels. The dirt was only a couple of feet deep, and beyond it was another ancient brick wall. Beyond the brick wall was a wooden wall.

By this time it was almost three. They had stirred up enough dust that both sentinels and Sidney were sneezing. Cutting neatly through the wood would require a tool they didn't have with them.

"We haven't been to the station all day," Megan said. "Let's go do some real police work for a couple of hours and come back to this tomorrow, hmmm?"

***

Checking his voice mail on the way to the Expedition, Jim got some good news. Dan finally had an identity on the body from the alley. Oscar Granger. He was a petty thug who freelanced up and down the Northwest Coast. Rafe and one of the uniforms were out tracking down known acquaintances at that very moment. He heard MacLeod, about twenty feet away, repeat the news to Inspector Connor, interrupting her ongoing gripe that they were wasting the day on some kind of wild goose chase.

Jim felt ok about it, himself. It wasn't the more usual sort of police work, but then usual methods hadn't caught Koren yet.

They were all filthy. Jim had dust in his hair and ears. Perhaps, if sentinels hadn't been involved, they could have gone back to the department as they were, but the guides were adamant about showers and clean clothes. The foreign contingent went back to the hotel to wash and change, but Jim and Blair had packed a change of clothes and could shower in the locker room.

Of course, first they had to get there. Jim opened the door of his beautiful new SUV and sighed. Blair caught it and smiled indulgently. "We can get it vacuumed out when it's all over."

"Vacuumed--I'll have to have the upholstery cleaned!" He knew, even without Blair's sympathetic head shake, that there was no way chemical cleaners could be used in the Ford. "This is all your fault." Jim wasn't sure what he was referring to, and it probably wasn't true, but he felt better.

Sandburg laughed.

At that time of day they had the locker room to themselves, which was a good thing because as soon as Sandburg was filth-free, he came over and began to inspect Jim minutely. He searched everywhere (even under the towel and behind his ears) for signs of rash. He took Jim's pulse. He listened to his breathing. He tested for vertigo. Jim took as much as he could, but at last he gave up trying to be patient and shoved him away. "Have you heard of privacy? What about personal space?"

"Sure. If you need some, we can schedule it. Later. Hold out your hands."

But in the end, Sandburg decreed him 'OK' and let him get dressed. Things could be worse.

They stopped off at the morgue to get Dan's final report on Granger's body, then at the sixth floor conference room, where Rafe had just returned and was piling the folders on Granger's known associates into "not interviewed yet," "no help," and "take a sentinel when you go back."

The rest of the team met them there. Connor, still damp and not smelling of sweat and decay, was actually quite attractive. Jim pushed that thought out of his mind and firmly turned the conversation to how they would divide up the interviews so that they could finish tonight. They had two sentinels, after all. There was no reason not to use them both as long as someone from the CPD accompanied the visiting officers.

Sandburg dropped a pile of folders he was juggling, spilling paper all over MacLeod's feet. Jim took a deep breath and got a very firm and careful hold on himself. Anything he was about to feel was sentinel bullshit, and he wasn't going to embarrass Blair with the sort of obsessive, controlling crap that Jack was always battling in Marcia.

So. No matter what he felt, he wouldn't say anything. Jim had more control than that, surely.

Strangely, though, Jim didn't feel anything. He took a good, long look at MacLeod, squatting on the floor across from Sandburg, rapidly sorting out files and tucking them back into folders. Well, he felt something. He was going to make damn sure the man never forgot that this was Jim's city and Jim's case. But....

It wasn't like he was worried about Blair. There was no reason why Blair wouldn't be fine. After all, what would MacLeod do? Hurt him? Steal him? Why would a sentinel do something to a guide?

Well, there were still days when Jim wouldn't mind strangling Lee Brackett with his bare hands, but that was special.

But did it ever even cross his mind that Marcia would do anything worse to Blair than be a little rude? Would Adrian do even that much? Rucker? Benton Frasier? Certainly, Jim had never felt threatened by any of them. On the other hand Adrian was hardly threatening, Rucker was family, and Frasier, well, they had spent almost no time together at all under normal circumstances. There was just no telling.

A very soft voice at his shoulder startled him. "If there's a problem, I'll talk to Mac." Dawson.

Jim felt himself flushing a little. "N-no," he stammered. "I mean, it's fine." At Dawson's dubious look, he added, "No, really. I mean, that's kind of got me confused. We have this friend, she gets really nasty if I even stand between her and her guide. We went to their place for dinner a couple of months ago... well, anyway. I just.... I don't see her problem."

"Ah. I see. But if you weren't obsessive about your other guides, surely that wouldn't just change now?"

"I'm actually pretty new at this," Jim said. "There was one guide before Sandburg. He... wasn't very good."

"Wow. A surprise lily. I wouldn't have guessed."

"Ah, surprise what?"

"Oh. Late bloomer. Sorry. So how long--?"

Jim sighed. "About a year."

"Damn!" Dawson made no attempt to hide his surprise and sympathy and Jim found himself smiling in answer.

"We're still working out the bugs," he said. "Actually, I'm surprised you didn't know."

"Oh, well. Heh. We've requested backgrounds on you both, but they're being faxed to the hotel since it would be rude to have them show up here. We haven't had time to pick them up yet. So, how's it going? Working the bugs out?"

Jim frowned at that. How were things working out? It was one thing to be unwilling to tell a near-stranger the whole truth, but Jim was suddenly unsure what should constitute his lie. How could you make up a polite fabrication when you didn't know what the truth was? "Well. I'm discovering that there probably are worse things in the world than being a sentinel."

"That's news?"

Jim glanced over at Blair who was piling folders by part of town. "Yeah. Talk about your big surprises."

Dawson smiled at him. "Just wait. It gets much better."

On the way out, ADA Sanchez ran into them at the elevator. Kaspari's court appearance was to be at 9:45 the next morning, and she was lining up her witnesses. Jim introduced everyone politely and promised to have everyone there on time and dressed appropriately. He played up the grouchy cop act as much as possible. Any time Jim even looked at a woman, Blair started matchmaking, and Sanchez was one of his favorites. She went on about making sure their guests understood American procedures for arraignment, indictment, and bail, and Jim had to admit she had a point. He promised to get to that tonight, sometime.

Jim and Sandburg spent the afternoon trying to track Granger's last movements with Inspector Connor. Aside from being attractive (which was bad enough), Connor was bossy, persisted in calling Blair 'Sandy,' and her conversation seemed limited to criticizing Jim's interrogation technique and playing 'disgusting food poker' with Blair. Witchetty grubs. Please.

"Aw, come on, Jim," Blair prodded. "You must have eaten some interesting stuff in Peru."

"Plantains and elderly monkey, Chief. Nothing exciting enough to write home about, believe me."

By the time 7:30 rolled around they had accomplished surprisingly little, but the teams had all agreed to meet back at the department to catch up and plan out what to do next. Their timing was good. They met the other group just as they reached the elevator in the parking garage and rode up together. It took only a minute's conversation to learn that nobody had made much progress on where Granger had been or who he had seen before he had died.

Halfway through the conversation, MacLeod stiffened and looked around. He smelled of surprise. Jim tried to hear what he was hearing or smell what he was smelling, but everything seemed normal. As soon as the elevator doors opened, MacLeod made a bee-line for Major Crime, not the conference room.

From the hall Jim could hear someone in Simon's office. He wondered what kind of meeting they were interrupting. A stranger was saying, "--not an expert in this, but have you considered sending it to a cryptographer? I mean, if your linguists don't recognize it.... Although I admit I don't see the point in encoding a plaque. You usually want people to read those."

Halfway through the door to Simon's office, Joe stopped short, and Blair, right behind him, crashed into the doorframe trying to avoid tripping over him. Jim could smell the anxiety wafting off MacLeod. He didn't know what waited in that office, but he pulled Blair behind him before he looked.

There was a man sitting in one of Simon's chairs, drinking Simon's coffee. He looked up and smiled. "Sorry I'm late. I didn't finish the Campbell case until very late last night. Hullo, Megan. Nice to see you again."

Simon held out a folder. "Dr. Pierson isn't joining us in an official capacity."

The average-looking, vaguely familiar man smiled cheerfully. "Nope. Just along for the ride."

"You're not supposed to be joining us in any capacity," Dawson growled.

Jim flipped open the folder and glanced down. Seeing the face in black-and-white fax distortion snapped the memory into place. This was the police scientist Koren and company had nearly tortured to death in Scotland last fall.

Pierson smiled slyly at Simon. "You see? This is the man who has been after me since Christmas to take a vacation." Everyone started talking at once. Jim couldn't remember the last time he was surrounded by so many people smelling of so many varieties of 'upset' that didn't involve somebody getting arrested.

He retreated back out through the crowd in Simon's doorway and sat down on Rafe's desk. Normally, he didn't sit on other people's desks because it irritated him when they did it, but maybe he could count today as some kind of special occasion.

The yelling and quarreling continued.

Blair laid a hand on Jim's arm. "Tired?"

"I'm fine. Really."

Simon bellowed for quiet, got reports out of Inspector Connor and Rafe.

"So where are we on the case? Is this archaeology thing going to pan out or what?" Simon asked.

"The dig-site is a complete waste of time," Connor said promptly. "The Maritime Museum is the only target in town worthy of Koren's attention. Unless he's blackmailing one of your local business leaders as we speak."

The tail end of this comment was almost completely drowned out by MacLeod's impatient, "You're not unintelligent. How can you so constantly be wrong?"

"All right, people," Simon called, poking his head out the door. "Jim, what do you think?"

"The dig. I have no idea why, but he's after that dig."

"And you base that on?" Connor snapped.

"Kaspari's MO. He doesn't shoot people for fun."

"He kills people for fun all the time," Blair said, sounding surprised.

"Not with a gun." It was Pierson who spoke. He was looking at the floor, turning his coffee cup slowly in his hand. "You were getting too close. They were desperate to derail the investigation. The quickest, most convenient way to do that would be to take out a guide."

"They'll have to think of something else. We have the site locked down," Jim said.

Pierson looked up, meeting his eyes. "Maybe. He has another priority now. He's going to want Kaspari back."

"Adam's right," MacLeod said. "They're still in town. Koren and Etz will try to retrieve their man."

"We've got Kaspari in isolation now. After his court appearance tomorrow, he stops being our problem for a while. We have two uniforms on watch at Cantor Construction and one at the Maritime Museum."

"Is that going to be enough?" Simon asked.

"I volunteer to stake out the museum," Connor said immediately.

MacLeod nodded. "We'll take the real target and watch the excavation. We should be able to set up far enough away that Koren won't be able to spot us."

"Rafe, is there anything we can do to up the security on Kaspari?" Simon asked.

Pierson stood up smoothly and put aside his cup. He stalked past MacLeod, murmuring, "A word with you, special constable."

MacLeod hesitated for a moment, then followed him to the corner behind Murphy's desk. "You have court tomorrow," Pierson said very softly. Jim realized that he shouldn't be listening, but while his control was pretty good, it was very hard to listen to something other than a conversation he was interested in, especially at short notice. He turned his eyes to Simon and Rafe's discussion of security, but his ears remained stubbornly focused on what was whispered behind him. "I expect you were on the job very early this morning. I expect you've made time for, perhaps, one meal today. I won't object to you running yourself into the ground, if that is your intention. But you will not take your guide with you."

Amazingly, MacLeod gave in. He came back to the doorway and said, "I withdraw the offer. We have to testify tomorrow."

Simon smiled. "Never mind. Monk has been complaining that he never gets to do any real police work since Jim came on line. I'll give it to him."

Jim sighed. "Speaking of court dates, I promised the ADA we'd go over that tonight."

"You could come to the hotel and meet us for breakfast," MacLeod said. "We could talk about it then."

"I'd hoped to visit the site first--" Jim started, but Blair interrupted, laughing, "In your court clothes?"

"I can meet Dr. Graham," Henry said. "I promise we won't solve the case without you."

***

Blair woke up at two-thirty with the Wonderburger they'd had for dinner turning to lumps of lead in his stomach. Really, he'd only meant to get a salad when they'd stopped for dinner on the way home, but when they'd pulled into the drive-thru it had suddenly hit him just how long ago lunch had been, and he found himself ordering a double hamburger. With bacon. And onion rings.

Softly, he padded into the kitchen and mixed himself some bicarb. As he sipped it, he found his eyes straying to the phone and sighed. Maybe it wasn't fair to blame his upset stomach completely on junk food. There had been a message waiting when they got home. Jack, checking in with Jim and making sure everything was all right. Was everything all right? Because if it wasn't, this time Blair wouldn't get another chance.

Was Jim all right? Surely, working while he was blinded hadn't hurt him. Nearly gotten him killed, yes, but Jim was in control now. He was healthy. As soon as this next case was finished, Blair would take him out of town for a few days. Camping or a sentinel retreat. Somewhere quiet where nobody would make demands on him and there wasn't any pressure to perform.

Blair scowled. His own lack of confidence would be as big a threat to Jim as anything else. Maybe going along with Jim working had not been a perfect decision. There had been no perfect decision to make. Get past it. Move on. Live in the present.

He crept upstairs. It used to impress Jack that Blair could move around the house at night and not wake Jim. He didn't this time either. Jim slept soundly, snoring just a tiny bit, curled around his pillow.

Even Jack agreed he was out of any immediate danger. Strong and in control and getting better. Everything was fine.

Blair went back to bed.

***

Tessa was the only one waiting in the hotel dining room the next morning. She smiled pleasantly and invited them to sit down, adding, "The boys weren't quite ready yet. I can go ahead and order for them, so we don't fall behind schedule."

"Hey, no problem," Blair said. He couldn't imagine how hard it would be, keeping a sentinel comfortable and rested in a foreign country, let alone working a case with as much pressure as this one.

A waitress arrived with coffee and took their orders. As he left, Tessa looked at Jim curiously. "Is something wrong, Detective?"

"No," Jim said quickly, but now that Blair looked it was clear that something was wrong. "That is, can I ask you a personal question?"

She blinked at that. "You can ask," she said.

"How can you--" Jim stopped and started over to no better result. "I mean you--" He sighed. "You're married to one of us!"

"Yes," she answered uncertainly.

"Why?"

The question had come out a harsh demand, but Tessa's uncertainty faded and she nodded slowly. "You're wondering if it's difficult, being married to a sentinel?" she asked gently.

Blair realized that he hadn't breathed in several seconds. He was completely blindsided. Dear god. How had he missed this one?

"Difficult?" Jim shook his head in confusion. "It's got to be impossible. Don't--don't get me wrong. Your husband's an ok guy. He seems to have a pretty good grip on things. But even if you don't have problems with the senses and the health issues and the job you've got this guide in the middle of everything--" Jim stopped and looked away. "That came out badly. I'm sure everything.... Look, this is none of my business. Let's talk about something else."

Tessa leaned forward and rested her chin on her hand. She surveyed Jim thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Let's not. I can't imagine what they tell sentinels over here, but it's not as bad as you imagine. It did take me almost a year to learn how to shop and how to cook, and there was one very ugly incident involving a personal hygiene product, but it doesn't take that long to get used to the rules and form new habits. It's a little inconvenient sometimes, I admit. But people are inconvenient. If it's not one thing, it's another."

Jim looked unconvinced. Blair wanted to curl up and die. He had thought Jim showed no interest in dating because he was out of the habit of being involved with people. He had been throwing women at Jim for months, completely oblivious to the fact that Jim thought of himself as unmarriageable, perhaps un-datable. And that one of the reasons Jim thought this was Blair himself. "What about the guide issue?" Blair forced the words out, surprised that they sounded so calm.

Jim, stricken, glanced fleetingly at Blair and then studied his silverware.

Tessa said, "You mean, do I get tired of having company for dinner three or four days a week? Do I miss having romantic vacations?" She shrugged. "Yes, but after you have your first child your romantic vacations decline anyway. And Joe is very good about babysitting. It probably evens out in the end."

"So it's like having an extra relative?" Jim asked.

"My husband had his guide before he had me. Part of me is jealous of that. They have something I will never share. I am also damn glad that Duncan does have him. I am told that before Joe he went through seven guides in two years. He was mean spirited and short tempered and very difficult on the job. Not someone I would have wanted to marry." She laughed softly. "We tried separate vacations once. Believe me, I was glad when Joe got home. Also, it's good to have a guide who's competent, who can make the decisions I can't. A couple of years ago there was an accident with the water supply. A contaminant in the pumping station. It wasn't enough to affect most people, but nine sentinels wound up in hospital. One died. It was... it was a very near thing. He was very sick. I can't imagine, if I had had to make those decisions, to cope with...." She sighed. "All I had to be was his wife and all I had to do was love him. I didn't have to figure out how to keep him alive. All those day-to-day things that go wrong, I don't have to solve all that. I don't think I could."

Jim was very still, his unwavering gaze a study in both hope and terror. As Blair watched, Jim forced the hope back down and made the terror disappear. "It can't be much of a life for a guide," he said.

Tessa glanced at Blair, looked back at Jim. "The night the water went bad, I called Joe at two in the morning because Duncan was having hallucinations. He lives three houses down. He has his own life. His own hobbies. Sometimes, I think it's not much of a life. I mean, what do you say to your date at two in the morning when you have to leave because your sentinel's sick? There are no days off. There are no plans you can make. But don't think that's the end of it. It's not. I've been married to a bobby for twelve years. I can't count how many times I've said good-bye at two in the morning, but I get over it. It's not so terrible, not if everyone is gracious about it. So far, everyone has been."

Jim nodded stiffly. Blair tried to catch his eye, but he would not look up. 'Aw, damn it, Jim!' he thought. Why do you always assume the worst? He at once felt guilty for the thought. Blair knew perfectly well why Jim assumed the worst. If Jim had interrupted a date with a little thing like hallucinations, Brackett wouldn't have been 'gracious' about it.

Tessa sighed. "Don't judge them by whatever you're seeing now. This case has been very, very hard on both of them. We were all trying to put what happened last fall behind us and move on when it went pear-shaped all over again. I don't know how guide education works in America. In the UK, it takes five years. After the first year, each student spends four months out of every twelve in a practical rotation with a sentinel and guide team in the field. There was a young man, his name was Richie-- is Richie. Joe and Duncan took him as a favor to their boss. It is very, very difficult to get police sentinels to take interns at all...." She sighed. "It worked out very well. You have to realize that Duncan's record is so high because his control is very nearly perfect. But he doesn't.... he doesn't work with guides well. Hardly anyone can reach him at all. Richie could. He fit in with the family, and we liked him."

Jim glanced at her and then, under the table, reached for Blair's hand.

The story went on. "Joe is older than Duncan, and it's getting to be a little much for him. We're not sure how much longer it will be before they have to make the choice to transfer to Police Science or find another guide. Another guide wasn't even a possibility before we met Richie. It meant a great deal to them, to find someone they could trust, who Duncan would respond to. So even though it's almost never done, they arranged for Richie to serve another term with them this year. Then in December, they went to Madrid because Koren had been seen."

Intern, Blair thought. Oh. Crap.

"Koren was sending a message. He beat Richie and left him in front of their hotel. He wasn't meant to survive. He's 'recovering from head injuries' now. He may not ever be the same. None of us is the same right now. What Koren has done to my family--but don't look at us and be frightened of trying to have a life. Whatever you're seeing, it isn't us."

"I'm sorry. This was none of my business." Jim looked positively ill. His hand was very cold.

"I don't know what they teach sentinels in America, but if you don't mind my saying," she began sternly.

"They didn't teach me anything," Jim said miserably. "I've been guessing. It all just happened."

"Jim hasn't been on line very long," Blair said.

"You're really not worried about your child," Jim whispered.

"I am a mother. I worry all the time. The possibility that remains that she might be a sentinel? It is as common as grass in Duncan's family. His older brother, his father's sister, his cousin Robert, his great-grandfather. I suppose if I weren't surrounded by people who knew how to handle all the little things that could come up, I would be terrified. But we'd have all the help we needed."

She started to add more, but Jim closed his eyes and shook his head. A minute later the food and the rest of the party arrived at the same time. Jim immediately launched into a recitation of the court proceeding coming up that morning. Jim, as the arresting officer, would probably have to make a statement. So might Mac, as a representative of a foreign government who had a formal claim on the suspect. Then there would be a discussion of bail--not a worry in a case this deadly, let alone gruesome--and then Kaspari would be remanded to custody. There were details included, but Blair had seen the process enough times not to bother following along with the description.

***

As soon as they got in the SUV, Blair turned on the radio and said, "Jim, I'm sorry."

"Let's not talk about it now, ok? We have work to do."

"Ok," Blair said.

But Jim didn't take the transmission out of park. He sat very still, one hand gripping Blair's left hand. It felt like being stood on by a bear.

Blair waited. He reminded himself that Jim was dealing with his anxieties. He had independently sought information. He had been a sentinel for such a short time. It was reasonable to be uncertain just what kind of relationships his new lifestyle would allow.

All right, Blair had missed all this. But if Jim had wanted to talk about the thought that he was hopelessly unfit for a primary relationship, he would have brought it up.

God. No wonder he had been so convinced that something was up with Mac's wife.

"I suppose you agree with her," Jim said.

"You can't have a normal life," Blair said. "You can have your life. And you can have other people in it. It just won't be the cookie-cutter life you imagine everyone else has."

Another long, long silence. "I can't imagine watching you train your replacement, Chief."

"I can't imagine doing it."

"Blair--if you're not, ah, ok with working in Major Crime, forensics isn't the end of the world or anything. I'd need some CE. That's all. We could do it."

"But--why?"

"I'd understand. If you didn't want to... you almost died."

"Jim, that could have happened to anyone. Well, not you, but any of the detectives or staff. Or anyone who even came upstairs to drop off some paperwork."

"I'm just saying here, the first choice isn't looking for... I mean, we can transfer."

"Ok. I'll remember that."

***

"Connor's here," Jim said as they came through security. Her smell was all over the courthouse. By the smell of her, she hadn't showered since yesterday afternoon. Which was fine, Jim supposed. The important thing about Connor was that she didn't hesitate when the moment came to pull her weapon. When Mac had hauled Kaspari off his guide and slammed him into the mud, she had been right there, no uncertainty, no confusion. That was good enough.

Besides traces of Megan Connor, the courthouse was full of reporters and uniforms. An international serial killer was a big deal, even for Cascade, which had a really big trial at least twice a year. Even fighting the crowd, they made it to the courtroom ten minutes before Kaspari was scheduled to appear.

Dawson, Mac, and Pierson were standing toward the front talking to Beverly. The three men were standing a good two feet apart from one another. Apparently whatever unpleasant disagreement Jim had still smelled on them that morning was still an issue.

Beverly spotted Jim and began to weave her way toward them through the gathering crowd. As she left them, Dawson turned to Pierson and said, "You don't have to do this, Adam. It's not too late for you to go back to the hotel."

"The hell it's not," Mac snapped. "Nobody goes anywhere alone. For any reason. The subject is closed."

If there was more, Jim missed it. Beverly had arrived and launched at once into a rapid string of instructions and updates. A moment later she vanished, and Jim and Blair headed toward their seats toward the front. Blair laughed softly.

"What?" Jim asked.

"I never imagined growing up that I would ever be sitting with the prosecution."

Jim was confused. "Where else would you sit?"

"Well, when Naomi used to get arrested--"

"Naomi what?"

"Well, not when I was little. But later. It wasn't a big deal."

"What was she getting arrested for?"

Blair shrugged. "The usual. Possession. Assault. Illegal wiretap, grand theft auto--Jim, man, don't do that! I'm kidding. I'm kidding. It was all civil disobedience. Blocking a public access. Trespassing. That's all, man, I swear. Chill."

Jim allowed Blair to steer him into a seat. His face felt hot and his extremities felt cold. He took a couple of deep breaths. Blair's lying was improving, to get Jim to even consider Naomi Sandburg as some kind of thug.

"You're such a shit, Sandburg."

MacLeod cleared his throat and threw them a dark look. Apparently, he didn't approve of finding a little joy in the world.

Although, no, that wasn't fair. He was being intense about this case. He'd almost lost two friends already. Being a little tense was completely understandable.

The thing was, everything about him was understandable. Looking at him was like looking in a mirror. The perspective was different, but the image was completely familiar. 'Like me,' Jim thought. Then, 'One of us. Other people like me.'

Mac gently brushed Dawson's shoulder, casually sniffing him. Jim knew that moment, checking your guide's state of mind by his smell. He had read about sentinels and guides. Blair had told him how things 'normally' were. Jim just hadn't pictured--

He remembered The Canadian, traveling with his guide, his pet wolf, and his police liaison. He remembered the sure, gentle way Benton had touched each of them. He remembered the flaky FBI sentinel and his frosty guide. He had known then that they were sentinels, he was a sentinel.... why, now, did he feel so surprised to see his own gestures and habits appearing in someone else?

He didn't get any more time to follow that line of thought. The judge arrived, and then Kaspari was brought in. The next fifteen minutes passed like any ordinary hearing. There were a few differences. Usually someone facing charges as serious as these managed to wear a suit before the judge. Kaspari just sprawled in the paper jumpsuit that had replaced his sodden clothes two days before. He leered at the judge, at Beverly, at the foreign visitors. At Megan sitting alone in the very back of the courtroom.

Kaspari had also declined a lawyer. To questions asked of him, he only shrugged.

MacLeod and Dawson were both doing pattern breathing--different patterns and both of them were more complex than Jim could picture trying. On the other side of them, Pierson was silently clicking two finger nails together.

Beverly was organized and precise and totally relentless. When the time came, Jim made his statement. Then MacLeod got up to deliver the Crown's formal request for the prisoner, which the judge accepted graciously and promised to take under advisement.

Kaspari folded his hands and lowered his head. It looked like prayer. What he was whispering was to MacLeod, though, not God. "Next time it won't be a gun. Nothing so quick. Why bother? He can't run, after all."

MacLeod surged to his feet. Dawson was caught by surprise, of course. He hadn't heard anything. Jim had heard everything. Was still hearing it, in fact. "I have these little knives. Short knives. They're not very sharp. I can make it last a very long time assuming I don't hit a vein."

Jim slammed MacLeod back into his seat, not bothering to be polite. "The defendant is mouthing off," he shouted to Beverly who was already making appalled noises. "He's making threats."

MacLeod was squirming, trying to free himself from Jim's grip on his shoulders, trying to look around the bulky body to make eye contact with Kaspari across the room. "Don't say it," Jim hissed. "Don't say anything."

"That bastard--"

"It's over. He's locked up. Stop it!"

Kaspari was laughing. The judge gaveled and demanded quiet. Dawson got an arm around Mac's waist, and that, finally, stilled him. Jim sat back down. The smells of Kaspari's insanity and MacLeod's and Beverly's and Pierson's rage mixed with Dawson's grief and Blair's alarm and the personal care products that packed the room to make Jim feel dizzy and nauseated. He wanted to be somewhere quiet and clean. He wanted to move around, to work off some of the adrenalin that seemed to be welling up spontaneously. Somehow he managed to follow the end of the hearing, to pay attention as Kaspari was taken away for psychiatric evaluation.

***

Going back to the dig site was a big improvement. It was drizzling, big surprise, but Henry and the borrowed archaeologist had set up a kind of canopy over the dig and a smaller canopy beside it to cover a table spread with maps and old photographs. They had taken time to change in the bathroom at the court house, so Jim could sort of believe it when he reminded himself that mud was not really an issue.

Henry and Dr. Graham were standing over the table, passing back and forth large and small pieces of paper. Almost as one they grunted a greeting, and Henry said, "We made it through to the next basement, but it isn't what we were expecting."

Jim looked at the table. It was covered with maps, blow-ups of black-and-white photographs, and xeroxes of hand-written documents. "What we were expecting?" Jim asked.

"What Dr. Watson was expecting," Graham said. He motioned helplessly at the piles of paper. "They were doing background research on the area; it's one of the conveniences of historic archaeology. But I'm not sure all her notes are here, and what we're finding just doesn't match the records she had. The new area is much larger than we'd expected, it's not where we expected, and it's not oriented the right way."

"I think she was wrong about the location of that first basement," Henry confided. "I think we're two buildings over." He put down the map he was holding and set a clean rock on it as a paperweight.

"Can we see it?" asked Mac, coming up behind them. So they all trooped in, leaving light and air and even the lovely rain behind. The first tunnel, then the first basement. The second tunnel, and the bigger basement. There were fans in the larger rooms now, keeping air circulating, and a few wooden props had been wedged in place.

"The new area is about four feet deeper than this one. It's going to be a bit of a drop."

As they waited to pass through this last hole, Blair began to hum the theme music from Indiana Jones. When it didn't pass in a couple of seconds, Jim said, "Come on, Chief. You're embarrassing me here." At which point Dawson joined him, humming harmony.

Pierson patted Jim's shoulder sympathetically. "They can't help it, you know. It's the training. No matter what happens, a guide needs to be cheerful and upbeat. And if possible, distracting."

"Adam, stop bothering the nice men and come help me with this hole," Dawson said quickly.

"That's just silly," Blair said. But he stopped humming.

"Really? How many times in the last twenty-four hours have you moderated your mood so that you wouldn't upset your partner? Just wait, detective. He'll be doing it when he's alone in a few years."

From the next room, Dawson called, "Statistically speaking, guides are the most emotionally stable people on the planet."

"Yep," Jim answered easily, "When they're not completely unbalanced sadists." He had meant it to be funny. Surely, after all this time, he could make jokes about Lee. But apparently not, because as soon as the words were out a funny silence seemed to enter Jim's body. The vivid moment--enclosed, underground, the brush of warm bodies--was washed away.

Jim was leaning against a concrete wall, held up by the wall, mainly, and a desperate will to pull away from Lee who was currently in Jim's face. "You need to quit being such a baby about this. There is nothing here that can really hurt you. Now you know the scent we're looking for. Find it."

Then it vanished, leaving Jim again in the abandoned basement. It was Blair in his face, not Lee, and he was sitting up against a cool, brick wall.

"Shh. Shhh. It's all right. Just relax." Blair was petting Jim's hair with one hand. For a moment Jim was mortified. He had fallen apart in public. He was being comforted by his guide in public. He was--

Actually, Henry was used to Blair by now. Graham and Pierson were anthropologists. Kind of. Enough that, impossibly, this would seem normal to them. Blair was doing exactly what he ought to be doing. What Lee should have done. He should have sat Jim down and given him a moment to breathe. Just a moment, to sort it all out.

Now, months later, Jim had the words to understand what had gone wrong, what he'd needed to do then. He'd been searching for explosives, focusing harder and harder, until the scents were so strong and so 'loud' that they'd completely overwhelmed him. Jim could not think, he could not focus, each breath seemed to make his sinuses raw. He had needed to back it all down, to relax and start over.

But that bastard had not let him have a moment. He had forced Jim more and more open to tiny amounts of all kinds of chemical shit, until every molecule seemed like gallons and Jim's body had started to react to what it thought was an ocean of poison.

"Jim? Is it the cave? Do I need to get you out of here? Talk to me!" Hands on his face, cupping his ears. "Jim, please."

Jesus Christ, I think I just had a flashback, he thought in astonishment. Had he? Years ago, the first year or so after Peru, there'd been a couple. Not bad ones. Not this vivid.

"Jim? Talk to me, come on." Blair was staring into his eyes. Worried, a little. Willing to do something to make whatever was wrong better.

"I'm fine," Jim said. He blinked and lifted his chin. "I'm fine. It all just got overwhelming for a second. It's fine." Lying to the guide was a bad idea, he knew that. But if he explained now, Sandburg would completely freak. No. No way.

"I'll take you back outside."

Blair reached out, and Jim snared his hands, pulled him in. "Can't. We have work to do."

"Jim--"

"No, I'm good, Chief. We don't have time." But he held on a minute longer. His guide, solid and sane. The voice that had taught Jim how to cope.

"Jim--"

"We'll talk about it later at home, hmmm? Let's get to work."

Blair gave way, as Jim had known he would, and let Jim up.

They were alone in the cool, dim room. That was a relief, actually, now that he thought about it. The others hadn't stayed to watch. Jim went to the new hole and poked his head through before Sandburg could change his mind.

The further chamber was well-lit but cut by harsh shadows. There were lots of fragmented echoes. Other chambers? Hallways? What kind of basement was this, anyway? Jim hopped to the floor--nicely done in wood, this time, not packed earth--and looked around. Mac and Graham were off to the right, discussing how to best to shore up a weak area. Pierson and Henry were popping things into sample bags, just on general principle, apparently, since the bits of broken brick and chunks of wood here looked just like all the ones they'd seen so far.

The first order of business was to stabilize the area. At first Jim felt at a disadvantage. MacLeod apparently could look a section of piers and tell which of them was taking too much stress. Jim could sort of find weak spots, if he had a minute of complete quiet and closed his eyes.

Then he put his hands on a wall and everything jumped into focus. He could feel the vibrations. It was like a 3D puzzle coming together in his head. This piece of wood was against clay. That piece of ceiling was loose dirt and needed shoring up. This wall was solid, that wall was not. The next three hours passed in filthy, moderately sweaty labor that somehow went amazingly quickly. It was easy. It was almost fun.

They were just finishing up with the ad-hoc engineering when Simon dropped through the hole part way up the south wall and looked around. "Wow. You people weren't kidding." He had a bag of sandwiches, which he handed out. The man behind Simon had a sack of bottled water. They were all fairly dirty, but Blair had hypoallergenic wipes in his backpack.

The group's single-minded and enthusiastic eating gave Simon a few minutes to talk uninterrupted. The man with him was Mark Cantor, the owner of the property. "The good news is, he's agreed to give us the same support he was giving the university."

Cantor was tall and good looking and wealthy and sharp. Jim didn't like him, in a vague, non-urgent way. Cantor shrugged diffidently. "Monetarily, that's not much, although I can keep you in shoring timbers and electricity. All I ask is that you preserve as much of the archaeological usefulness of this as possible. What I get out of this is some historic, community service, publicity fluff." He smiled. "I don't get that if you have to come in with search warrants. But I don't get it if you trash the place either." He smiled a friendly, cooperative, let's all get along smile that made Jim want to smack him. He ate more sandwich instead.

Cantor took a look around then went back out again. "So where's Megan?" Blair asked.

"We went with the escort taking Kaspari to the psych facility, then I sent her to the hotel to get some sleep." He looked around. "How's it really coming here?"

Jim snorted. "Damned if we know. Apparently, whatever Watson was expecting was wrong. It's all a surprise at this point."

"So we could be wasting our time," Simon said.

Blair jumped up, shaking his head. "We don't know what Koren was expecting to find here."

Jim sighed. "I don't know what else to do, Simon. Has Rafe had any luck with finding Gillman?"

"Zip. The FBI is starting to make noises, asking why they haven't been called in."

"Because there's no note, no witnesses, no evidence of a kidnapping. He's probably just dead somewhere we haven't looked."

"So," Simon said sourly, "Basically, the picture is, one: no one has seen our at-large suspects, two: we are guessing about what they're up to, three: we have at least one and maybe two really nasty murders on our hands, oh, and four: the brass is getting antsy."

Sandburg appeared at Jim's shoulder then, whispering quickly, "If you won't need me for a few minutes, Adam and I want to go back up top and look at the maps some more."

There were four uniforms on duty. Sandburg would be fine. Jim nodded reluctantly and then turned back to Simon. "We have Kaspari," he offered.

"Who won't talk." Simon frowned. "Still. You're right. We have Kaspari...."

"What are you thinking?"

"They've been a gang for years. Koren will want Kaspari back. Maybe we can bait him."

"Oooo," Jim said. "Koren is smart. It won't work unless we really do use Kaspari, and that's a lot of risk."

"We've done it before."

"Just give me a couple of days, Simon. Please."

They kicked it around a little more, but eventually Simon agreed to hold off and climbed back out the hole in the wall. Jim joined the others who had already started searching the new chamber. The south wall was wood over brick, and it was solid. To the east, where they had done most of the bracing that morning, there wasn't much room. To the north they could go a couple of hundred feet without hitting the bay. To the west, at the edge of the range of their current electrical cord, a half-set of steps led down.

"Hey, Mac," Jim said, pointing down the steps, "am I right in thinking that if that goes on straight, it'll wind up under the original hole?"

"That's how it looks to me, but my sense of direction is messed up on this side of the Atlantic."

Slowly, carefully, and as a group they explored further with flashlights. When the passage branched, offering north and west, they continued west. Just after it branched again, they came to a heavy set of metal double doors. They were locked, and while a chunky old lock like that didn't stand a chance against one sentinel let alone two, both the lock and the hinges were crusted with rust.

"So, Prof," Henry said cheerfully, "Are we allowed to use penetrating oil in relics?"

"I think digging them out closed would be too dangerous, under the circumstances."

"Right. That goes on the shopping list."

MacLeod picked up a small stone and tapped against the metal. It rang, bell-like if a little flat, on an open chamber on the other side. "Sounds like three by four to me," Mac said. That translated from meters into ten by twelve or so.

Jim listened to the fading echo that was passing through the wood floor. Without Blair beside him, though, he couldn't pay complete attention to the shape of the room beyond. "No argument," he said. "How long has Sandburg been gone, anyway?"

Dawson glanced at his watch. "An hour and a half--" He stopped, scowling, and turned back the way they'd come. "I think it's time for me to head up for some air."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "Me too."

It took too long to get out, even when he left the others behind and turned his flash light off, making faster, safer progress without the shifting shadows to fool him. Surely, nothing had happened. Blair had gotten absorbed in the maps. Or was talking to the British forensic anthropologist. They were bound to have lots in common. Or to the cops on duty. Blair didn't need to have something in common with a person to chat away for hours.

But surely nothing had happened, Jim reminded himself as he found the foothold in the wall and climbed back through the hole to the upper chambers. If something had taken out four armed cops and two support personnel it had done it without the sentinels below hearing it or smelling it. It just wasn't likely.

There was no smell of blood in the air when he burst into daylight at the other end of the tunnel. Of course not. Everything was fine. He could hear the men on guard duty talking. Even though he didn't hear Blair's voice, the vise around Jim's heart snapped free. See? Nothing. The case just had him jumpy.

The air was still very cool, even though the rain had stopped and the sun was out. Jim clambered up and looked around. There was nobody at the work-table. Nobody around not wearing a uniform. "Hey, Lewis," Jim called. "Where's Sandburg?"

"He said to tell you they went to the library over at the university. He'll be back soon."

Slowly, deliberately, Jim got out his cell phone and dialed Sandburg's number. It was answered almost immediately. "Blair Sandburg."

"Yeah, hi. Blair," Jim said mildly. "Where the hell are you?"

"Leaving the library."

"Really? Because I don't hear traffic noise."

"We aren't out the door yet."

"Yeah. Mmm hmm. It's just, I thought, we weren't wandering off by ourselves in the middle of a case where the perps are known to target cops and ancillary personnel."

"I'm not alone. I took Adam with me. He's armed."

Jim felt the anger shiver in his gut and a flush and tightening spread over his body. A distant part of him thought, wow, I can actually feel my blood pressure going up. "First of all, he can't possibly be licensed to carry concealed in this country. Second, I don't care if he's packing a bazooka, a morgue attendant is not adequate protection."

"Jim, man, just calm down. We're on our way back. Be there in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops." Then Blair hung up on him.

Below, Mac stuck his head out of the corridor and asked, "Where are they?"

"The library. They're on their way back."

"I got that part." He disappeared, returned a moment later with his guide. "There any more food up there?"

Jim looked around. There was a bag under the folding table. "Yeah, chips. They may be stale in this weather, though."

So they took a little break, visited the portapotties--no picnic for either the sentinels or the guy balancing on prosthesis--ate the chips, drank some bottled water from the bottom of the bag that had held the chips, and waited. Henry told the uniforms on guard all about the amazing series of basements hidden along the waterfront. In three minutes, he had them all clamoring for tours.

Jim walked a little bit away. The air was cool and damp. The puddles were cloudy and brown. He took a deep breath and looked up at the city around him. A few minutes later MacLeod joined him. Compared to other people, he seemed to barely disturb the world around him. There was a stillness there, an inner silence, a listening.

"Do you think he's watching?" MacLeod asked.

"He must be, but from far enough away that we won't see him." Jim sighed, pointing. "To the near south, Wilkinson Towers, forty-three floors and the Bank One building, sixteen floors. To the east, Old Downtown, Chinatown, and the Russian district. Nothing over six stories, but there's a lot of it. Across the bay, well, Questscape, the Hyatt, the Maddeningly building. They'll be behind a blind and, frankly, we don't have time to look into every window."

"Do we have time to fax their photos to the local real estate board?"

Jim snorted. "Yeah, actually." He squinted, but he could not peer through vertical blinds on the other side of the bay, even here where it was narrow.

Blair finally pulled up. Both he and Pierson paused to wrestle big stacks of books out of the car. Jim folded his arms and walked slowly over to meet them. He was unsure how angry he ought to be. On the one hand there was this impulse that said that disappearing while at work was inexcusable. That impulse wanted to grab Blair and shake him. On the other hand, Blair hadn't been gone an onerous length of time, and he probably hadn't done anything very dangerous and--the idea of turning his anger loose on Blair--No. No matter how angry he was. No more than he would have lost control with Carolyn or Simon, as angry as he had been with them at times.

He was angrier now, though. Just for the record.

Blair saw his face and winced. "Good," Jim thought.

Before either of them formed something to say, MacLeod laid into Pierson at a volume that made other conversation impossible. "What the hell were you doing? Have you got no brains at all?"

"Good to see you, too, Mac. Productive afternoon?"

"So--What? You think it's funny? I dinna expect this kid to understand what Koren is capable of, but you know better!"

"Yes. I do." The coldness of that soft statement rolled across the scarred lot like the return of winter. "Which is why avoiding him isn't quite going to cut it. We actually have to stop him. Which we are not closer to--"

"Um," Blair said, "Can I just say--"

He was drowned out. "Damn it, Adam, it's enough. You've made your point." Then, very softly. "Please, Adam. We did the best we could. You have to know that. Please, stop. It's enough."

He reached out a hand, but Pierson jerked backward. "What are you talking about?" He choked. "You think I'm--what? Punishing you?"

Slowly, radiating that startling stillness, MacLeod pursued him. "Maybe I deserve it. I didn't find you, after all. I'm sorry, Adam. Joe is sorry. Please stop."

"I--Oh, come on, I didn't wander off in a snit. I did some research. It wasn't some kind of message."

"It was my idea," Blair yelped. Jim was not sure how much of the soft conversation he had heard, but the body language was alarming enough. "It was my idea, I drove--it was my library card!"

The confrontation ground to a halt. MacLeod reluctantly took a step back.

"Anyway," Blair said quickly, "We've got it. We know what Koren wants with this place. You have got to see this."

One of the things Sandburg was good at was distracting people and holding their attention. Practically dancing, he led the way over to the folding table and dumped his books helter-skelter across it. Then he scrambled to retrieve one of the maps on the bottom. "See, here? This is the first room, the one with the coal heater in it. It was the headquarters of a shipping company. We knew that. This second one was a small textile factory. But here--all this--" the sweep of his finger included the new areas they had been exploring that afternoon. "It's listed on this map as a lumber mill. It wasn't. That was relocated in 1873. By the time of the fire, it was a very nice Masonic Lodge. Here, we found pictures."

Sidney--Jim had nearly forgotten him until then--dove forward and grabbed the book. "This wasn't in Emily's notes." He sounded personally affronted.

"No, it wasn't," Blair said happily. "But she delegated the background research to Gillman. We'll get back to that later. Because here is where we get to the really good part. Adam found it while we were driving back."

"Wait a minute," Henry said, "Masons?"

"Yeah," Blair said, "the modern ones do public service and stuff like that, but they grew out of a secret society dating back hundreds of years. They were, like, really into changing the world. Some of the most famous men in history were Freemasons. There's like 16 presidents and a whole bunch of signers of the Declaration of Independence."

"Ok, and?" Jim prompted.

Pierson produced one of the books from his own pile and passed it to MacLeod. A More Interesting History of the Pacific North West. A page was marked with an empty airline sugar packet. "The fire wiped out more than just the waterfront. When the fire took the lodge, it took the entire leadership; they were all killed and among them were two men who were very highly placed. Now, there was a memoir written in 1903 by an elderly Mason. He reported that there was a huge vault filled with their collective assets in gold bars hidden beneath the foundations of the building. Apparently, the directions to the vault were on some kind of gold plaque. In secret code. Sadly, nobody believed him."

"Why not?" Jim asked.

Pierson shrugged. "He was institutionalized at the time, dying of dementia."

"Oh. Well. That would do it...."

"Wait a minute," Henry said, "You're saying--"

"We're saying that there may be a fortune in gold buried practically under our feet," Pierson said smugly. "We're saying that either Watson or Gillman knew about it, and it was probably Gillman, since he was in charge of the background research and the copy of the coded plaque was found under his computer. He kept the story to himself, maybe planning to sell it. Somehow, he attracted the wrong attention."

"But how did he find the plaque?" Jim asked. He rooted under the books. Somewhere they had a xerox of the thing.

Blair shrugged. "There were several pilot holes. Most of them weren't stable and a few didn't pan out. I don't know at this point."

Jim dug out his cell phone and called Rafe. "We need to talk to the graduate assistants working in historic archaeology again," he said.

***

Rafe brought the grad students to the site, but both sentinels agreed that they were telling the truth when they said they didn't know anything. Simon, when he heard, was less than thrilled. "You're telling me the case just got bigger? Gee. Thanks. We've already sent three cases back to Homicide this week."

"What's the word on the translation of the plaque?" Jim asked.

"Nothing yet. Smaller samples apparently take longer than bigger ones, and as of an hour ago, their computer was down. They think they'll have something by midmorning tomorrow."

Jim and Blair went back into the tunnels with Dr. Graham, Brown, and Pierson to search now that they knew what they were looking for, but the area was quite large and carved into a maze, and, as Blair put it, lacking in considerate signs that said, "vault full of gold, this way."

While they were below, MacLeod stayed up top, walking back and forth across the chewed up and muddy ground, pausing every few steps to whack the soil with a nine-pound hammer borrowed from the construction site next door. From the vibrations, he was able to mark the extent of the underground complex on the map. Of course, what he couldn't tell from there was which basements belonged to the Masons; the most accurate map of the area had, after all, proven to be over a decade out of date. Still, it would give them an idea how big the haystack they were searching was.

Now that they had an idea just how tempting a target it was, they couldn't leave it unguarded at night. Simon detailed four men to stand guard, and the sentinels divided the night into two shifts, so that they could watch the site from a distance.

It was the police chief who set up the spot for their stake-out. He had a friend who had an insurance office in the Wilkinson Building. The conference room wasn't large, but it had a huge window with a northerly view. A secretary had stayed late to let them in, but when she left they were alone.

Blair unpacked the sack of sandwiches at the conference table, while Jim dragged a chair over to the window and checked out the view. It was nearly dark, but the construction site had been lit with portable flood lights. Jim could make out the four police officers directly guarding the excavation. He couldn't actually see the open pit itself; the canvas tarp protecting it from rain was in the way. Jim wished they'd thought to pull it down. He would have liked to be able to look right in. But never mind. An archaeological excavation wasn't something that could be carried out low-profile.

"Milk or water?" Blair asked.

"The milk now. It'll be nasty warm," Jim answered, taking a carton of milk and a ham and cheese sandwich from Blair.

"When do we get relieved?"

"Two. Can you make it?"

"No problem."

Jim unwrapped his sandwich, but instead of eating it, he laid it on the window sill. He'd been putting it off, but now was the time. Really, they could work this out. Sandburg was a bright guy. He would understand, come around, be reasonable.

"Sandburg, we need to talk about this afternoon."

Sandburg sighed, put down his own sandwich, and came around the conference table to stand within Jim's field of vision. "This is where you ream me out for cracking the case open?"

Jim remembered why he'd been so angry before. He stood up. "No, this is where I ream you out for doing something stupid and dangerous."

"Jim, I told the guys where we were going. I left a message on your phone. I was gone barely two hours, and I didn't go alone. You're over-reacting."

"Oh. Really. Am I? You were fine? Fine. What if I wasn't? What if I got into trouble and we didn't know where you were?"

Blair looked at him in surprise. "Wow. You're trying to guilt me into giving in. That's, well, as annoying as hell, but kind of cute."

"Sandburg--"

Blair darted forward, captured one of Jim's hands, leaned up toward his face. "You were fine, Jim. You were as far away from trouble as I've ever seen you. Ever." His eyes softened. "You should have seen yourself, man. It wasn't that you were in control. You weren't even worried about control. You were on a roll. Confident. And fast! My god, Jim. I couldn't even follow what you were doing, all I could do was obey: 'put this there,' 'hold that here.' You were amazing. You didn't need a babysitter. Not really."

Blair's eyes were glowing with unashamed pride and unstinting approval. Jim felt like shit.

"I know I've been a nudge lately. I've hardly let you out of my sight. I need to be close. That's my job. But you get some space, and some control, and I'm getting a handle on that again--" Blair paused, frowning. "Jim? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Jim said, the lie souring in his mouth. "This morning. In the tunnel. What happened...."

"What happened?" He frowned. "Jim? When you zoned? You weren't even gone for ten seconds. You came back right away--"

"It wasn't a zone," Jim said quickly, slurring the words together. "I had--It was a flashback. To about a day before I met you. Lee--"

Blair stepped back. "You had a flashback. To Brackett."

"Chief--"

"You told me you were fine, Jim. You let me think it was a little sensory blip."

"I was fine." Jim took a step forward. Blair took a step back.

"I left you alone thinking everything was ok. Shit, what if it had happened again? What if you'd had another one while I was gone? Everybody there knew what a zone is, but nobody had a fucking clue--"

"You're making a big deal out of this. Chief--"

"If it wasn't a big deal, why didn't you tell me?"

"You would have freaked. We had work to do--" Jim stopped, gagging on the reek of fury rolling off his guide. Blair angry on Jim's behalf was completely different from the smell of Blair angry at Jim. It had taken Jim weeks to get used to that smell, to learn in his heart that an angry guide did not necessarily mean the hammer of doom. It had taken weeks for Blair to learn to control that temper, to put aside his reactions and speak calmly. Now, that control was still there but the fury was directed at Jim himself. He could smell the difference and the stench of it made him feel sick. "Blair...."

"I trusted you. I actually assumed that if you had a real problem you would tell me. I thought you trusted me. I thought you knew how this works."

Jim stepped forward, needing to touch, unable to stop himself. "I was going to tell you later. We didn't have time."

Blair stepped backward, out of reach again. "Right before you met me. Lee nearly killed you then, didn't he?"

"It was just for a moment."

"I didn't even see it. You had a flashback and I didn't even notice. No, Jim. Don't touch me now. I'm very angry. You don't need to deal with that right now. Why don't you just sit down and eat your dinner."

"We need to talk about this."

"No, I need to think about this. Anyway we have work to do. That's the most important thing, right? We'll talk about this later." Oh, he sounded bitter. Blair crossed to the back of the room. He pulled one chair back from the table, than set another in front of it so that when he sat down he could bend his knees and rest his heels on the second chair.

Swallowing hard, Jim sat back in the chair by the window. There was no question of eating now. He thought resentfully that Sandburg was usually so careful of his appetite. Then he thought it wasn't fair that he made one mistake and he was completely in the dog house.

But the smell of rage behind him was giving way to a smell of hurt and despair. It might not matter if Jim weren't entirely in the wrong. Even if he weren't. Something terrible had happened, and Jim couldn't fix it.

Outside, below, the cops walked their perimeter. A bat swooped out and picked off bugs gathering around the floodlights. There was no sign of any hostile activity.

From the comparative darkness behind him, Blair said, "Never mind, Jim. It wasn't your fault. It could have been a disaster," the sharp smell of tears, then, "but it wasn't. It wasn't your fault. I'm not angry at you."

Jim swallowed dryly. It didn't help. The words came out almost a croak. "That's quite a whopper, there, Chief."

"I was angry. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"You, ah, you had a point. I should have told you--"

"It's not your fault." The answer was gentle and emotionless and far away. "I thought you'd gotten to the point where you'd tell me if there was something I needed to know. My mistake. You're not ready for an adult relationship with a guide. You have reason. It will take more time."

A reprieve. It felt worse than the indictment had. Jim laid a hand against the cold window. The glass vibrated with the passing traffic below.

"Jack was right. I was too much your friend and not enough your guide. As important as it is to care, to get attached, if a guide relies too much on his partner for emotional support, he gets everybody's needs confused. I really can't say 'no' to you or evaluate what you tell me rationally or take charge when I need to."

"That's not true! You're good--"

"I'm very sorry about this afternoon. I shouldn't have left. I apologize. I'll be more careful."

Jim turned around. "It wasn't that bad. It was only a few seconds. You didn't blow it here! Blair, come on!"

"Jim. I've read your file. The day before you met me, you had an uptake distortion response so severe you nearly died. Very bad things could have happened today, Jim."

"I'm sorry! All right? I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Blair--"

"Yes, it will. It's all right, Jim. You need more time. I think I knew that intellectually, it's just the last couple of months you've been so healthy and your control has been so good. Really, I think you have been much better about communication."

"I'm not a child--"

"No, of course not." But the answer was as gentle as one you would give a child, and it was so sad.

Jim turned back to the window, numbly watching their private potential crime scene. After a while, Blair said, "You should probably eat something." Obediently, Jim took the milk. It had already gotten warm enough to taste completely wrong. He put it aside and ate the sandwich dry.

Promptly at three minutes to two, the elevator started up. Jim, his eyes still on the window, rose slowly and began to gather the remains of the dinner they hadn't had. By the time he was ready to go, MacLeod and Pierson were knocking on the outer door.

"Hi," Sandburg said, opening the door. A moment, then, "Where's Joe?"

"Not feeling well. I'm babysitting tonight," Pierson said lightly, but both of them smelled like quarreling. Jim flushed slightly, realizing that MacLeod could no doubt smell their argument, too.

Jim didn't speak until the elevator doors closed behind them. "Why does this have to be your fault?" Jim asked. "Why can't... why can't we just say that I made a mistake. A moment of bad judgment. I didn't think. That's all it was."

Blair glanced at him, smiling slightly. "Thanks," he said. It wasn't the same thing as agreeing.

"Can't we just--"

"I left you alone, Jim. You could have--It could have been very bad. Very, very bad. I left you--"

"You weren't wrong, damn it." The words echoed off the walls of the tiny room. "You left because you thought I was fine, and you were right. You were right, can't you see that? You didn't just believe me. You knew it here." He shoved Blair firmly in the stomach. "You know when I'm not. You were right because nothing happened--no. No! Don't you shake your head at me. It wasn't just that we got lucky. Deep down you knew I was fine."

But Blair had already made up his mind. His eyes were soft with sympathy and affection, already saying, 'I'm sorry.'

"No, damn it!" Jim shoved Sandburg back against the wall. He was small and didn't make any real resistance. "No," Jim shouted, "You are not going to put this between us!"

The elevator dinged and came to rest with the tiniest inward bounce of mass. Abruptly, Jim realized what he'd done. He had grabbed Blair, pushed him. Horrified, Jim started to pull back.

Strong hands caught him at the waist, gently held him still. Sandburg hugged him for a moment, then patted his shoulder and slid free to exit the elevator. A moment later Jim followed him.

Sandburg had slouched onto one of the upholstered benches along the wall where the elevator alcove intersected the main lobby. Jim leaned against the wall beside him and closed his eyes. What could he say? 'You aren't a bad guide?' One way or another, they were both fucking up tonight. 'You can trust me?' Jim had lied today. To his guide, who had been very clear for months about wanting accurate reports. It didn't matter that Jim hadn't realized he was lying about anything important. Then he had it. "Can we start over?"

For a moment Sandburg was quiet, then he whispered, "Maybe we better."

"Chief, in the cave this morning I tried to make a joke about Brackett, and I had a flashback to something he did before I met you."

The smell of tears again, but no smell of anger. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, actually," Jim said, remembering. "I, um, it turns out that what happened, I could handle it if it happened now. I might have been able to handle it then, if I'd just had a moment to relax and concentrate."

Blair leaned sideways, his shoulder against Jim's hip. "That's good. I'm glad." He sighed. "You should have told me."

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

Blair didn't answer. The smell of tears became more urgent.

"Hey," Jim said, nudging him gently.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm trying. I just keep thinking of how much I'd miss you if something happened."

Jim laughed weakly, patted his head. "I'm pretty fond of you, too, Junior. Come on, you smell exhausted. Let's go home."

Blair stayed very close as they walked through the empty parking lot to the Expedition. With a weird, late-night clarity Jim found himself considering the oddity of spending so much time resisting the physical closeness and contact having a real guide involved and spending so little time seriously considering what it would mean to have his life in the hands of someone who was so afraid of screwing it up that they never seemed to believe that they'd worried enough.

He really wished they could talk to Jack.

***

Blair managed to sleep, which wasn't a surprise. Sleeping was much better than thinking. But he woke up almost forty-five minutes before he needed to, still tired and very antsy. He filled in the time till Jim got up with his own shower, then making breakfast. When Jim came down there was bacon and eggs, oatmeal, and toast with honey. Jim took one look at the table and sighed.

"What?"

Another sigh. "Do I need to get weighed again? I'm fine. I'm eating."

"Oh. Er. Actually, this is sort of an apology. For completely losing my mind last night."

Jim sat down and reached for the bacon. "That would explain all this food you disapprove of. So, you're over it?"

"Completely."

"You know, the lying would be more effective if you could modulate your smell." Jim was smiling, and Blair managed to smile back and shrug.

The rest of the morning wasn't too bad. If Jim was a little more thoughtful than usual and if Blair stood closer, well, neither of them mentioned it. As they were headed to the car Simon called to tell them to meet him at the site, not the department. The translation had arrived, and Simon was already on his way.

When they arrived, Simon was chewing on a cigar and waving a small piece of paper in the air. "It's directions," he sang. "Unfortunately, they don't make any sense to me, but heck, I can leave that to you." His cell phone rang, and Simon broke off to answer it. Jim took a polite step back, although he could obviously overhear any conversation from the parking lot across the street if he wanted to. Blair found himself watching his partner very closely, wishing they'd had an hour at the sentinel gym so that Blair could run him through the basic drills, just so he could see for himself that Jim was all right. Actually, the regular drills were probably not what Jim needed. He was stable enough now to start some of the more advanced meditation training. Not all sentinels got very far with that, but Jim would. He would take to the mindful altered states like a duck to water. Of course it would take months, maybe lots of months, before he could use it to control his autonomic responses. But once he did, Blair wouldn't have to worry about a physiological train wreck that happened last year popping up and biting Jim in the arse.

Catching Blair watching, Jim started to say something, but then his phone rang too. "Hey, Connor! Long time no see. You're missing all the fun." A pause, then, "Ok, I'll bite. Who have you and Rafe got in the car?" He glanced at Blair and rolled his eyes. Then his jaw dropped. "I take it the wrong question would be 'what was the cause of death?' Where are you taking him?" He listened a moment longer, then hung up. "You'll never guess," he said.

Blair shoved him gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure that was cute coming from Megan, but she's better looking than you are. Give."

Jim snorted. "They've got Martin Gillman. He was hiding out in a homeless shelter on Kennedy."

"What, alive?"

"Yeah. Who knew? Apparently one of your graduate students is studying poverty and saw him last night. He didn't realize why he looked familiar until this morning, when he called it in. They're bringing Gillman now."

"Wow."

"Well," Simon said, closing his phone and turning toward them, "the police chief will be here in an hour."

While Jim and Simon were catching one another up, Henry and Sidney arrived, one right after the other. Jim frowned at them as they made their way across the site. "What?" Blair asked.

"They're in some deep conversation about illegal antiquities." Smiled slightly and shook his head. "Brown seems to have picked up a new hobby. I never would have guessed him for the stones and bones type."

Blair shrugged. "I can see the attraction: excitement, mystery, history, the adrenalin of discovery."

"And yet, I don't see you doing it."

"Well, hell, Jim. In between the earthshaking discoveries are years of finding nothing. Most of it is slogging through the mud, working from dawn till dark with people you loathe, and fighting over the last M&M."

The contingent from Scotland arrived then. All three of them were there, and none looked as disgruntled and grim as Adam and Mac had the night before. They passed Simon's translation around between them.

"The directions are pretty clear," Adam said. "But we need the starting point."

Jim and Mac looked at one another. Mac nodded. Jim said, "It's probably those big doors."

"Well," Sidney said, "All we can do is look." Brown was practically dancing with excitement.

***

Although starting up the generator and getting everybody back down into the pit and then through the narrow tunnels and drops was time consuming, the directions were, in fact, pretty clear. It was almost anticlimactic how quickly they were standing in what had clearly once been a lushly appointed inner sanctum. The floor was covered with a rotted film that had once been a thick rug and the remains of framed pictures hung on what was left of the walls.

Things slowed down then. Sidney, who was by then officially listed as a consultant to the department, took pictures while the sentinels waited out of the range of the flash. Then Sidney and the sentinels carefully searched the room. The room was not so large that it took a long time. In a few minutes it was clear that if a safe full of gold was anywhere in the room, it had to be buried under the half-collapsed east wall.

Simon went back up top to meet the police chief and check in. The sentinels set at once to shoring up the ceiling at the east end of the room, and Sidney and Henry began to clear the debris. The pile wasn't very large, but they were slowed down by Sidney's pickiness about how they stack the fill and because every ten minutes they stopped to take more pictures.

Simon came back with the Chief of Police, who was guardedly impressed and politely supportive. Simon handed his superior off to Adam. "This is more Dr. Pierson's area than mine," and said to the others, "One step forward, two steps back. Martin Gillman just died in interview room four. I need a sentinel to come look at the body."

"What?" It was most of the room asking the question.

Simon shook his head disgustedly. "I don't have an explanation for it. Rafe was in the squadroom getting the paperwork ready. Megan went to get the guy some coffee and a sandwich because he looked dead on his feet, and when she got back twenty minutes later he was dead. Come on, let's go."

"That would be me," Jim said. Mac looked ready to argue, but Adam, not breaking his explanation to the Chief, bounced a pebble sharply off his arm and Mac receded.

The paramedics had already cleared out by the time they got there, although some of their medical litter was in the trash can in the hall. Dan Wolf waited outside the interrogation room with a stretcher, and Samantha from forensics waited irritably just inside the door. Megan stepped forward as they approached, her expression alternating between fury and contrition almost comically. Simon shrugged and shook his head. "Just tell us again what happened. How long were you gone?"

"Longer than I meant to be. I ran into your prosecutor in the hall on the way back from the sandwich machine on the first floor."

"How was he when you left?" Jim asked.

"Depressed. Subdued. Terrified, actually. It was going to be like pulling teeth to get him to talk." A scowl. "Brian and I had been playing good cop/good cop for an hour already. The kid was a mess."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nothing coherent. As soon as we approached him and he knew he'd been located, he kept repeating that he was 'fucked.' He said that it didn't make any difference. He'd thought at first that he could just hide and it would all blow over, but then he read about Watson and Granger in the newspaper and he knew he was dead 'no matter what.' All of which elicits great speculation, but isn't anything either clear or concrete. I thought maybe if he ate something...."

"Did he say how he knew Granger?" Simon asked.

"I wish. The obvious guess is, Granger was his contact to Koren, but that's only a guess."

Jim pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket and entered the room. Blair forced himself to turn his head and take a good look, then step forward after him. Damn. Just when he got used to seeing the bodies of strangers, then he got to start with dead people he knew. Martin Gillman was lying prone on the floor, his limbs straightened tidily. He had several days' growth of beard and his clothes were long unwashed.

Jim crouched on one knee and made a face. "He reeks," he muttered.

Jim checked his knuckles and wrists, then shrugged and shook his head. No sign of struggle. Gently, he lifted the slack head, leaning over to get a look at the face and neck. He paused, and without warning shot upward and stumbled backwards. Blair seized him by the waist and hauled him back another three steps, nearly slamming into Simon. Jim, his balance shot, clawed at Blair's arms, gasping. "Poisoned," he managed.

For a moment it seemed they were both going down, but although Jim swayed, he didn't fall. "Easy," Blair whispered in his ear. "You're ok."

"What the hell is going on?" Simon demanded at a roar from beside them.

"Give us a damn minute," Blair said. But Jim was standing on his own by then, although he kept one arm around Blair's shoulders. With his free hand, Jim reached to rub his face in a gesture Blair knew very well. With a yelp, Blair intercepted the hand and then with his pinkies stripped both gloves off and flipped them, inside-out, onto the floor. Jim grimaced apologetically. "You ok?" Blair asked.

"Yeah. Fine." He glanced at Simon. "I don't know what kind of poison it was. It was in him for hours, and I think there was a lot of it. It was coming out his pores."

Dan came in then. There was no point in preserving the scene for the sentinel if the criminal act had happened somewhere else hours before. He squatted by the body, sniffing it himself and shrugging. "Was it injected or consumed?"

"I don't know. What do I know about poison?" Jim said. "It smelled really complicated, if that helps."

Rafe told much the same story that Megan did. Simon chewed an unlit cigar and glowered. "How can you not notice the man was dying?"

"He didn't say anything," Rafe said. "He didn't tell us he was in pain or anything."

"Yes, he did," Megan corrected. "When we got him out of the car he held his stomach and said he was getting an ulcer or something."

"Great. Just great. There goes our witness. Or maybe one of our suspects. Fantastic."

Jim and Blair picked up a box of donuts, some more bottled water, and a new packet of wipes on the way back to Cantor Construction's torn-up lot. The others fell on their offering like sharks on an unlucky surfer. Except for Henry, who continued to shift rubble. "We've got some kind of structure here. This could be it," he said.

The safe, when they brushed the dirt off and shone lights on it, was an impressive three feet high. About six inches of that, however, was embedded in the floor, which had broken beneath it at some point. Sidney, Brown, and Mac immediately began to argue about pulleys and levers. Jim groused about how long this was taking and how important the case was and wanted to send for a blowtorch. Adam was ignoring the argument and taking notes describing the other objects in the room, occasionally carrying one or another into the hall and photographing it.

Joe was perched on a heap of rubble along the north end of the east wall which Sidney and Henry hadn't excavated yet. Blair joined him. Jim was bringing up the blowtorch idea again; apparently he liked watching Sidney turn rotating shades of purple and crimson. Blair wanted to be out of the way the yelling started for real.

He looked at the safe, canted and wedged into the floor on the other side of Joe. "I guess it will be over soon," he said.

"Oh, yeah. All over. Except for everybody who's dead and everybody who actually had the pleasure of meeting Melvin Koren face to face." It was a quiet comment, but the acid in it could melt steel, and Blair began to stammer an apology. Joe waved a hand. "Sorry, kid. Forget it. It's just...."

"Bad," Blair whispered. "Very, very bad."

As one, the two guides glanced at the quarreling sentinels, and then Joe said, "Tessa's having nightmares. We shouldn't have brought her, but we didn't have a choice. Married sentinels...."

Blair nodded. Married sentinels were notorious for not being able to sleep alone.

"We left her when we went to Madrid. That was a mistake. One of many." He sighed.

Blair was unsure what to say. He went with obvious, but encouraging. "A lot has happened."

"Adam going off with you yesterday, Blair. That wasn't like him. He does not take chances. He picks arguments, he complains incessantly, he worries about every little thing, and he won't see a shrink. He won't talk to anyone about what happened. I just wish it was over, you know? We're all sniping at each other now. The only thing anyone could agree about last night, apparently, was slipping me a mickey."

"What?" Blair asked.

Joe looked at him blandly. "What? You didn't think I sat out last night voluntarily, did you? They switched out my medication last night and put me to sleep. They think the schedule we've been keeping is too hard on me."

"God," Blair whispered, trying to imagine being forcibly separated from Jim.

Joe shrugged. "It could have been worse. At least it was Adam with him."

"He knows something about sentinels?"

"Mac doesn't need an expert in sentinels. He needs an external control to balance out his internal controls, which are completely...." he paused, glancing over to where Adam was carefully sliding the remains of a desk drawer in order to take it into the tunnel and photograph it. "Adam is a stubborn, uncompromising, pain in the ass," he said loudly.

Without looking up from the delicate shift he was demonstrating to Henry, Adam called back, "Love you, too, Joe."

"Anyway," he said, returning to the conversation, "Mac goes through guides like toilet paper. They get intimidated by his scores or his record or his family reputation or, hell, just by him and they back down. After that, they're completely useless to him as a guide. Adam doesn't back down, at least. Even now. He wouldn't let Mac walk off a cliff just because he couldn't get his attention."

"Walk off a cliff?" Blair asked. A couple of times Jim had tried to walk into traffic while he was tracking something. He tried to imagine what he would do if Jim just ignored or disregarded him. There was no way Blair was physically strong enough to bodily stop Jim from doing whatever he wanted.

"The cliff was the guide before me," Joe said. "The moron said it had never occurred to him that a MacLeod sentinel could ever make that kind of mistake."

"Wow," Blair said.

They were interrupted by a sudden silence, and looked up. "It can't be that easy," Henry said.

Sidney said, "No, don't--"

But Jim was already headed for the hall, calling "We'll see," over his shoulder. At once he was back with a pick they'd left in the hallway. He strode through the others to the canted safe, and struck the pick through the floor in front of it. The crash made everyone jump slightly.

The work didn't go fast, but it went steadily. Jim and Mac took turns chopping up the floor while Sidney fretted and Henry shoveled the debris away. There was a little dust, and the ground under the floor was slightly musty. Blair tried not to worry about the smell, but after about ten minutes he leaned over to Joe and whispered, "Should we call a break and air the place out?"

Joe shrugged. "They'll let us know." Suddenly, Blair saw all of the experience and confidence he didn't have. Whatever else might be going on, Joe had no uncertainty about his sentinel.

Blair closed his eyes and whispered, "I'm not sure he would." He was ashamed. He did not want to admit that his sentinel didn't completely trust him and that he didn't have a hold on the situation, but pretending otherwise would be a lie.

A hand on his arm, the light touch of a guide holding attention. "Because he doesn't have a lot of experience."

"Yes."

"And because of Brackett."

Blair's eyes popped open. "What?"

"I do work with a detective. I've seen the charges pending. I cannot imagine.... I would very much like to know how a sentinel survived attempted murder by his own guide."

Blair sighed and buried his face in his hands.

There was a short silence, broken only by the crack of old wood and shluff of shifting dirt and debris.

"Look, kid. You asked about right now. You know what he looks like when something's bothering him, right? When he's overwhelmed. You know what that looks like."

Blair knew. He pictured Jim, his face shifted away, not looking directly at anything, leaning slightly backwards, wincing. He nodded.

"You know the headache look?"

That was subtler, because Jim had lived for so long with nearly constant headaches, but yes, Blair knew that look too. Shoulders slightly hunched, stiff movements, frown.

"When he's present and on top of things?" Blair nodded. "Ok, then. Look at your guy. He in trouble?"

"No."

"Then relax. Let him do his job."

Blair forced himself to sit calmly while they finished. It didn't take long. They only needed to clear enough of the floor in front of the safe to get the door open. For a moment, it looked like the sentinels were about to wrestle for the privilege of cracking the safe, but Jim admitted he'd never done it before so it was Mac who knelt in the fresh dirt and put his ear to the door.

It took several minutes, but only because the tumblers were stiff with age and disuse. Then the mechanism clicked and it only took a moment's leaning on the handle to disengage the lock.

***

It was all Jim could do to sit on his hands and wait while the other sentinel worked on the safe. The comparative quiet was kind of intimidating. This far underground, traffic noise was barely a vibration under his feet. With no voices arguing and no hands digging, all he could really hear was heartbeats and breathing, and the grind of the dial on the ancient safe.

Really, he could hear plenty. Henry's stomach had this gurgle....

But still, the quality of the sounds--or maybe it was just that none of the things he could hear were things he had to do anything about. No private conversations he needed to avoid hearing. No arguments to win. No sirens to keep half an ear open for (nothing that high-pitched could reach that far down here). There was nothing he needed to listen to. He wasn't sure if the quiet was soothing or just eerie.

Briefly, he turned his attention to smell. The musty smell was almost completely washed out now. Mostly there was sweat and anticipation. A blur of suspense that clouded all the slow air currents. Jim closed his eyes and searched for his guide. There. Blair smelled slightly worried. He had calmed down considerably from last night's major freaking-out, but the mellow, 'everything's cool' smell hadn't blossomed yet.

As irritating and inconvenient as it was to have a keeper watching him and second-guessing everything Jim did or breathed or ate, it did occur to him that Brackett had never once smelled worried. Not about anything, and certainly not about Jim. Not in the beginning, when the man had seemed professional and polite, if not terribly friendly. Not at the end, the day Jim had a seizure at the PD.

It then occurred to him that thinking about Brackett was probably not a good idea. Was it possible to give yourself a flashback by dwelling on the unpleasant past? He didn't know and wasn't going to ask. Jim did not have time to deal with his issues today. He brought his mind back to his nose, the smells of the room. That should have been neutral and distracting, but sitting beside Blair out of the way, Dawson smelled of distress and pain.

There, he thought. See? Things could be worse.

In the quiet room, the safe abruptly clanked and groaned, making Jim jump. Grinning, MacLeod pulled the lever and leaned his weight away from the door. With a harsh squeal, the safe opened.

At once, Brown was hopping forward, shining a light inside. It glinted off a stack of regular, squarish lumps less than a foot and a half high and about that wide. The gold.

There was a long, breathless silence, and then MacLeod reached in with both hands and removed one gold bar. "This is about five and a half kilograms," he said softly. "There are about sixty-five of these."

"That's, um, a lot, isn't it?" Blair asked.

Sidney pulled out a calculator. For a couple of minutes the only sound was scribbling and tapping. "It's close to eight hundred pounds. It's, um, it's worth about five million dollars at today's prices. Er. Depending."

Something brushed against Jim's hand. It was lithe and soft and (Jim could tell because his hand was in sight at that moment) completely invisible. He jumped, earning him a concerned look from Blair.

"We have them," Pierson said. "This is it. If Koren and Etz murdered your witness this morning, then they are still here. They have not given up." He motioned toward the safe. "This is our chance to trap them."

Blair shivered. "What do you have in mind?"

"We tell the press we found all this. We tell them when we're moving it, and to where. Koren will come for it. We've given him some harsh setbacks. He won't tolerate that. He'll come, and we'll have him."

Jim stared at the flashlight glinting off the gold. "Come on, Chief. Let's go call Simon."

It was drizzling when they stepped out of the tunnel. Water hissed against the tarp which covered the hole. The ladder was slick and wet. They were going to move about 800 pounds of gold, somehow, out of that hole and up this ladder; a logistical pain in the ass even if it weren't also a trap.

Jim made the call and gave Simon his report. The shout of surprise from the other end was so loud that Blair heard it and snickered. Jim rolled his eyes and outlined the tentative plan. When Simon put him on hold, he said, "He's talking to the chief. Rhonda's good at arranging really fast and detailed leaks. We could have cameras set up out there in less than an hour."

"Cool."

"Ok," Simon said, "The chief says we're go. He and I will be there in about twenty minutes. Have someone meet us to show us in."

The disconnect was drowned out by a sudden cacophony of roaring and snarling. He could make out a wolf howling and the call of some kind of bird, but the other sounds ran together like some kind of frantic zoo. Jim looked around, but could see no sign of them.

"Hey?" Blair said softly. "You ok?"

Aw fuck. "You didn't hear that." Not a question.

"Well, no. But that's usual." Blair was peering up into Jim's eyes. The worried smell was a little stronger.

Jim really, really, really wished pretending that nothing was happening was an option here. But not only would that really piss Blair off, if he were having hallucinations, that might affect the quality of his work. Shit. "I heard some animals."

Blair looked around. "Where?"

"Not real animals."

"Oh." Blair said. He waited expectantly.

"Well?" Jim said.

"When I said you needed to tell me everything, I didn't mean that. I know you see animals sometimes. You'd rather not talk about it, and I'm fine with that. It's normal for some sentinels. It doesn't interfere with your cognition or your sensory processing. It's not a big deal." He patted Jim's shoulder comfortingly.

A part of Jim was grateful that Blair did not point out that the animals were real. Actually, that was very generous of him. But it did not solve the problem.

"I haven't seen them in... I don't know. A while."

The frown was back. "How long a while?"

"I don't know. A month? I was trying to ignore them, I didn't notice them going away. A while--"

Blair laid a hand on his chest, silencing him. "Wait. Let me think. In the hospital, you said the animals were gone. Do you remember that?"

"In the hospital after the golden? No."

"Damn." Blair closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't even notice, I was so worried about your eyes! Well, ok. Ok. Not freaking. As it turns out this damage wasn't permanent either. Man, we are so lucky."

"What are you talking about? I stopped having-- And now I am again. How is that lucky?"

"Jim, when the drug messed up your eyes, it must have messed up the part that sees animals, too. It took a week for your eyes to recover. This just took longer."

"But I thought psychedelics were supposed to make you see things, not stop you from seeing things," Jim said sourly. This was unfair, and he saw no point in being a good sport about it.

Blair rolled his eyes. "Well, yeah. If what you're seeing isn't real. I mean, there are some drugs out there that can be used for religious purposes, but most of them just gunk up your aura."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that."

"Uh, yeah. That's probably best." Blair squeezed his arm. "So we lucked out. You recovered from this, too."

Jim wanted to shake him. He just wasn't getting the point. Jim would rather not see animals at all. Really, he'd been much better off damaged, because-- "Chief," he muttered, "the thing is, they sound really upset."

Blair shrugged. "Well? If I was trying to get your attention for the last month and you'd ignored me, I'd be pissed off, too. They'll forgive you."

Blair had gone berserk over a little flashback, over something that was harmless and in the past and behind them. But he just didn't--wouldn't, couldn't--get appropriately upset about animals, which were infinitely worse on all levels.

Jim sighed, and Blair began to rub up and down his upper arm. He was working hard at being the comforting, unruffled guide. Truthfully, it did dissolve the worst of Jim's bitterness and fear, but it wasn't the help he wanted. Not that there was any use in asking for more. Sometime in January, Jim, fed up with the giant black cat that he found sleeping in his bed or sitting in his chair about once a week, had asked Blair to find a way to make it go away. Blair had pointed out that Benton Frasier saw animals all the time, and he was one of the most capable and stable sentinels on the continent. More than that, he was the healthiest sentinel--physically speaking--that Blair had ever met. He couldn't be convinced to put effort into combating something that wasn't causing any real problems and might even be somehow beneficial.

Easy for him to say. Sandburg didn't have animals strolling through the interrogation room while he tried to question a suspect. He didn't, right? "Chief, do you--?"

"Only that once." A warm hand, petting Jim's upper arm. Outside the tarp, the drizzle gave way to a sun break, and the light shining through the tarp turned the pit from dim to blue. "Look, I know you don't like to talk about this--"

"You're right, I don't. And don't say 'but' at this point."

"Right."

They waited in silence until Simon showed up with the police chief, Mark Cantor, Megan Connor, Hal Buckner, and Carolyn. The vault room hadn't been large enough for that many people before a large portion of it was taken up with rubble. Jim found himself squeezed into a corner with Sandburg while Carolyn and Sidney discussed the best way to transport the gold out of the tunnels.

Simultaneously, Cantor was grilling Buckner about who actually owned the gold. The university and the development company had signed a contract at the beginning that covered how any findings would be divided, but no one had expected a windfall this large. Depending on whether treasure was going to be classified as 'artifacts' or not the state might be able to lay claim to a portion of it as well. Then there was the question of the original owners.

In the meantime, it was going to be transported to police evidence lock-up. Assuming they could get it there, if Koren took the bait.

Connor circled the room, examining the sample, asking very quiet questions. When she circled around to Jim she was scowling. "This isn't going to work," she said sharply.

"He's still in town," Jim said. "I don't believe that poisoning this morning was accidental. Our perp has not given up."

She turned in a slow circle, shaking her head. "This is not going to work."

"He won't fall for it?" She was the expert after all. She'd chased Koren for years.

"Maybe."

"Pierson thinks he'd try it anyway. He's too arrogant to think we could stop him."

She hesitated. "It won't work," was all she'd say.

The press showed up outside, set up trucks across the street. The newspaper photographer tried to sneak over the fence, got ejected by the uniforms standing guard. Within half an hour, it was mentioned on newsbreaks on the radio. Outside, the plan was going swimmingly.

Inside, the first sample case they tried to move was almost too heavy to lift and dented with its own weight before they made it to the door.

There was no question of just carrying out the bars one at a time, maybe wrapped in canvas or bubble-wrap or something. There were sixty-six bars. They had to be kept track of, labeled, checked, and locked in something, even though they were not, strictly speaking, evidence.

Carolyn called her office. The small crates that were strong enough had considerable weight themselves, even before the gold was added in. They were too large to easily maneuver in the narrow, dilapidated tunnels the basements' hallways had become. The boxes were strong, though (nearly bomb-proof), and she had enough of them.

The afternoon crawled by. Henry, whose enthusiasm had died down now that there was no more digging or discovery, went off to get sandwiches and milkshakes. MacLeod and his guide withdrew to one of the small side-rooms, a disappearance Jim would have found suspicious or even weird a year ago, but now considered perfectly normal. Probably even healthy and necessary.

Heaven knew, Jim's own guide was hovering. Blair never took more than two steps away from him. Jim was having breaks in reality. Not big ones, and he always knew what reality was, but Blair was standing close, just in case. Thinking about it--and it was better not to think about it--Jim couldn't help wondering if he had had another guide, what the chances were that he'd be grounded or possibly even on vacation by now.

Jim waited. Sandburg hovered.

MacLeod reappeared and checked out the food Brown had brought back. The look on his face as he tasted one of the milkshakes was almost as funny as the sudden, sharp smell of affronted disgust, and Jim couldn't hide his amusement, not from another sentinel.

MacLeod rolled his eyes, "Well pardon me if I expect something called a 'milk shake' to actually include dairy products of some sort. How can you even eat this... well, I'm not even going to call it 'food.'"

Sandburg was laughing outright now and muttered something like, "been telling him...."

The tension had been building for hours--days--by that point. Jim could not remember the last time he had heard Sandburg laugh. Yesterday? The day before? It wasn't like him. He forced himself to say (very patronizingly) "Well, this is hardly our best example. Now, if you want a real milkshake, you have to go to Wonderburger." Which, as expected, nearly had Sandburg falling over.

Shuddering, MacLeod put the drink back and nervously examined his sandwich. "I've been meaning to ask you guys something."

"Sure," Jim said, because Sandburg was still snorting quietly.

"I understand you Americans keep your sentinel kids in the public schools. I was wondering how that worked out."

At a loss, Jim glanced at Blair. "I don't have much of an opinion, actually."

Blair added quickly, "Jim wasn't on line in school."

Jim laid a hand on his partner's arm. "For a while, I was. But my parents refused to let me be tested. I never got the training."

"In general," Blair said briskly, "It works out pretty well. In specific, it depends on the school system. It isn't just a question of money. Because hardly any school system can hire more than one teaching guide, the quality of that one can make a big difference."

MacLeod was looking at Jim uncertainly, and he smelled of sympathy and confusion. Jim wasn't sure what to say. "From what I understand, many private schools have very good programs. And there are summer camps. Why do you ask, Mac?"

MacLeod took a deep breath, looked up. The pressed tin ceiling was intact directly above them. One could hardly guess looking at it that they were about fourteen feet underground, in the abandoned sub-basement of a burned out secret society. "Joe and Rachel tell me that my daughter processes sensory input like a sentinel."

"Joe and who?" Jim asked.

"My brother's guide. Mary is ignoring the extra volume right now, but it's probably only a matter of time." He set his sandwich down and dug out his wallet, producing a picture of a girl. She looked to be about eight. "The problem is, at home, we send sentinels to special boarding schools. The nearest is in Glasgow. I can't begin to tell you how horrible it was. We've been talking about Otherwise, but--"

"Otherwise?" Blair asked.

"Home schooling. That would work in a number of ways. But she wouldn't meet sentinels her own age at all. We don't have summer camps."

Jim nodded. He would probably have learned a lot in a summer camp. "So you're thinking of moving?" Sentinels, like rocket scientists or Olympic athletes, could get permanent resident status almost anywhere.

"Thinking about it. It would be very difficult. The last thing I want is to leave home. Except maybe for Mary to face boarding school alone."

The man had gotten married. Never mind where he had found a woman willing to tolerate a freak, he, himself, had been willing to draw an innocent into his life. Then--incredibly--they had made a baby. How could someone who understood the risk bring a sentinel baby into the world? And all he was worried about was sending her to boarding school? Everything in this life was exhausting or dangerous. A little thing like indigestion had nearly undone Jim. Even now, with a competent guide. That was just this week. Last month a minor--negligible, chemically undetectable--drug exposure had messed up his eyes (and apparently his brain) for weeks. For most of the first year, Jim's throat had periodically swollen, making it a real possibility that he would just spontaneously asphyxiate.

This apparently reasonable man had risked this life for his child.

"The biggest problem for sentinels in America isn't the education, it's the urbanization," Sandburg said.

Jim thought, 'Right. Another culture. Perhaps they were all crazy over there.' They were in the middle of a case, which was, hopefully, about to break. Now was not the time to try to figure out where sentinels fit in the world.

"We have that problem at home." With a sigh, MacLeod put the picture away.

"Mac--" Jim almost changed his mind in that moment. It wasn't like he'd given the question any thought. But he had to know, and there were so few people to ask. "In America, at camp, kids say that if your guide doesn't take care of you, you start to see animals." He shot Blair an apologetic look. This wasn't an accusation, he was fishing. Blair only nodded. His eyes were on MacLeod.

Who didn't seem to find the question terribly important. He shrugged. "My brother Connor sees animals. His guide has taken very good care of him for the last twenty years. But focus and trancing and the rest of it all did come more easily to him. Everything I had to learn with discipline and practice was just natural." He smiled wryly. "Of course, before they knew it was sentinels running in the family, everybody thought the MacLeods tended to be a wee bit 'tetched.'" He sighed. "You have to remember, sentinel children aren't any less confused or any more kind than any other children. They tell each other nasty things everywhere, I think. Animals are just a way of coping."

It was almost six before the detectives went up top to stand guard as the uniforms and evidence people brought up the cases of gold. The rain had stopped, but the churned ground was slick with standing water and the overcast sky was making dusk come early.

The good news about things taking so long was that they had made the five-thirty local news, live and with a grumpily reluctant Captain Banks pretending to downplay everything, including the 'security risks' the interviewer gleefully asked about. Jim smirked, listening in from a distance, and then straightened as the first case was brought into the open excavation and Carolyn readied the pulley rigged to lift the containers out.

Showtime.

His eyes met MacLeod's across the pit, and without speaking, they put their backs to one another and scanned outward.

The wind was cool. Blair stepped closer.

In the distance, Jim could see the police helicopter. It wouldn't come in until the armored car was on the move. It was a short trip from the construction site to the PD, where the gold would be temporarily housed in evidence lock-up since Rainier's only high-security holding was in the virology lab of the Kempler Biological Institute. Koren, if he made his move, had only a short window to do it in.

Megan was stalking around the construction site, haranguing Captain Banks as she passed about the possibilities for "collateral damage." This was not a game. Koren would not care how many people got hurt as long as he got the gold. If he wanted it, he would take it.

The media encampment across the street was up to four broadcast trucks and three photographers. There was no sign of Koren.

To the right, on the other side of the fence at the working construction site, a small group of crows had settled on the remains of the workmen's lunch. They picked over the ground, squabbling at one another irritably. Blair laid a hand on Jim's arm and said softly, "Actual birds, Jim."

"Right, right."

It was good, at least, to be in the clean, cool, spring air. The atmosphere in the tunnels was dusty and stale, redolent with the filth that dusted every inch of Jim's skin. It was in his hair, his ears, he couldn't wait for a shower. But it was best not to think about that. He didn't want Blair worried about it, for one thing. For another, compared to how filthy he'd been now and again, this was nothing. Certainly no reason to complain. Not compared to the jungle. Or the swamp. He found the helicopter again, tracked it for a moment.

The second sample container was on its way out of the hole and the third was waiting at the bottom of the excavation. Beyond the fences, traffic was passing normally. There was no suspicious flicker or reflection in the windows of the buildings that rose up around three sides of the site. Jim took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders, and scanned the area again, starting with the near ground and working his way up and out. The attack, if it came, would probably be after the armored car was moving, but because that was the most obvious approach, Jim wasn't going to count on it. Koren had known about this gold for days--weeks maybe. He'd had time to prepare.

Paying attention forward, Jim didn't hear anyone approaching Sandburg until the intruder was right behind him. Automatically, he snatched Blair out of the way. Fortunately, his reflexes were good enough to abort his next move, because Jim was fairly sure that, no matter how reasonable and mellow they appeared, if he had hauled off and hit MacLeod's guide, MacLeod would have promptly attempted to rip Jim's head off.

Dawson looked Jim up and down for a moment and shook his head. "You, friend, are way too tense." He glanced sternly at Blair, who dropped his eyes and nodded, but stepped almost possessively in front of Jim. "Listen, I was wondering, do either of you know where Adam got to? I haven't seen him in a while, I thought maybe he said something to you, Blair."

"No, I haven't seen him. Oh, crap." Blair looked at the excavation. "He wouldn't have gotten lost, would he?"

"I hope not. Although finding him wouldn't be too hard with a sentinel. We can't spare one right now."

Jim shook his head. "It doesn't make sense that he would wander off. The plan was his idea." He swept his eyes over the street, the buildings beyond. It was hard, keeping his ears tracking both the conversation he was in and open to what was going on outside the construction site. Behind them, another container cleared the excavation and was carried to the armored car. Jim had lost count of how many this made.

Then Simon, standing next to the pulley mechanism, said sharply, "What the hell--" and then, "When?"

Jim turned. Simon was gripping his cell phone so tightly his knuckles were grey. "Do we know where they are now?" he asked tersely.

Jim reached out, trying to find the other end of that conversation, but Blair squeezed his arm. "Jim? What's wrong?"

Hell. "I don't know. Come on." He charged back across the lot, Blair scampering behind him and Dawson quickly left behind. They reached Simon as he was hanging up. "Simon, what happened?"

"Twenty minutes ago Koren hit Conover, trying to retrieve Kaspari."

"My god," Jim muttered. "Did he get him?"

"No," Simon said, and here he turned toward MacLeod coming up on the other side. "Because our guest Pierson had stopped by for a visit and was waiting for him." Simon wasn't yelling, but the very air seemed to retreat from his anger anyway. "I don't know how he got a handgun past security, but Kaspari is dead, apparently because Pierson shot him while he was headed for the door."

"The rest of them?" Jim asked, his heart sinking.

"Koren and Etz escaped. They took Pierson with them. Apparently they weren't thrilled about his interference." He turned on his heel and stomped off through the mud toward his car. "We don't know any more--it's chaos over there. There were a couple of explosions."

MacLeod collected his guide and hurried after Simon. "We might still be able to find a trail," he said.

Megan caught his arm, but she wasn't strong enough to slow him down. "Mac, no! It's no good going to Conover. Damn it--" She gave up and let go, throwing herself in front of Jim instead. "Don't leave! Can't you understand, they'll come here next!"

It was the sight of the jaguar blocking the path behind her that brought Jim to a stumbling halt. Now? he thought. Now it has something helpful to say? He looked down at Megan, and she repeated, "They'll come here next. Koren doesn't give up. He doesn't forgive. He doesn't let anyone beat him. He has to come here next. If he gets away from here with the gold, he'll turn his revenge on the rest of Cascade. If Kaspari really is dead--"

"Yeah," Jim said thickly, "I got it." Jim turned back. "Carolyn," he bellowed, "How much do we have left in the tunnel?"

"About twenty. Jim, this is going to take at least another forty-five minutes. I can't speed it up any more."

Thank god. They were behind schedule. "Don't bring out any more. Leave it under ground. Koren can't steal what he can't get to. Somebody lock up that truck." Jim looked around. Simon was already gone. Well. Someone had to take a look at Conover. "Sandburg? Get across the street and have the news people clear out. Tell them we have a bomb threat or something." Hell, Koren had been known to use explosives now and then. "I need them back a thousand feet at least. Lewis, call dispatch. We need some back up." Three of the patrol cars had left with Simon, and most of their support had been put in place along the route to the PD. There were only five uniforms left, Brown, Megan Connor, Jim himself, and Carolyn's tech and evidence people. "Carolyn, get everybody out of the tunnels. The non-combatants can stay in the excavation; it's as good as a foxhole. But I don't want anybody underground where they could be trapped by a cave-in."

Jim turned in a circle. He really should do another scan of the area, even though there was no way Koren could have gotten across town so fast in evening traffic, but--

With Blair across the street, he couldn't concentrate. The traffic noise was too loud and meaningless besides. The people, the cars, the buildings all blurred together in a great audiovisual roar. He heard sirens in the distance, but could not place where or what kind. He was not sure he could pick Simon out of this chaos, let alone a suspect he had only seen in pictures.

Damn it. "Connor, do you have any idea--"

It was Sandburg's yell of surprise that cut through the meaningless roar around him. Jim spun around to see his guide, crossing the torn ground of the construction site/archaeology project, dodging out of the way of an incoming squadcar that tore through the open gate. Jim had halfway filed the intrusion away as a non-threat when the car spun to a squishy stop and a huge man leaped out and seized Blair from behind.

For one heartbeat, everything froze. Then, almost as one nine cops dropped to their knees and drew their weapons. The only one of them who had any cover was Carolyn, crouching behind the elderly generator Cantor had donated to the project. The rest of them were still unwilling to give up their line.

The man holding Blair was much bigger than he was; Jim could have made the shot at much greater range. Without hurrying, he took aim at the forehead of the criminal holding his guide. Silas Etz, he realized distantly.

From the side, a hand closed on the barrel of his gun and something cold and hard nudged him under the ear. "I don't have anything against Blair, detective, but I don't have much choice."

Jim choked. "Buckner?" He turned his head slightly. Blair's division chair was holding a gun on him. Now the fear, the rage he hadn't felt before roared to the surface. It did no good. He dared not move. A moment ago he had been about to retrieve his guide. Now--

"Tell them to lower their weapons."

It took two breaths for Jim to be able to speak. "Stand down," he said.

Everyone but Megan Connor obeyed him.

The squad car slowly pulled forward and drew even with the armored car. The man who got out of the driver's side was Koren. Jim recognized him from the pictures. He was smiling as he approached, but it wasn't arrogance or joy that was caught in his teeth, and Jim could see, when he looked, that Koren had been crying.

"Megan," Koren said. "Long time no see. Tell me, how is Jackson's widow doing? Making good use of the pension?"

"We've heard the news, Koren. Your sick little minion is dead," Connor returned. "Pierson beat you again. Some nobody from the police lab outsmarted you again."

If anything, Koren's smile grew wider. "Don't worry. He'll pay for that. Now, put away your gun. I will have Silas kill the guide. I'm right, aren't I? This is a guide? That will destroy two lives, not just one, won't it?" His eyes found Jim's. He knew what he had. "Better than killing somebody's husband, even. That's a good girl. You are a source of endless amusement. Now, who has the keys to this nice truck?"

It took less than two minutes. Buckner collected the keys from the driver waiting with the rest of the support personnel in the excavation. Koren transferred the limp form of Adam Pierson to the back with Buckner and the gold that was already loaded, then Etz got into the passenger side, pulling Blair in behind him. Jim could not look. He knew he must not scream, must not move, that if Blair could be saved at all, his life depended largely on Jim not getting him killed in these next few seconds. He could not meet Blair's eyes.

He did not see what Koren threw just before slamming the door shut and roaring off, but he heard four wet thumps as --somethings-- hit the ground. He did not look. His ears were focused on the truck, on the muffled and distant sound of Sandburg's heart. The sudden hissing was only a background noise.

It was Inspector Connor who grabbed him and hauled him sideways, her strong hands struggling with his great weight. "Jim, please!" she wailed. Then it was too late.

The tear gas, when it struck, wasn't a smell. Smell vanished at once, leaving only burning. His eyes, his face, every bit of the inside of his body was on fire. He fell. There were voices. It was all dim and distant beside the roaring pain.

Then, almost suddenly, the pain, like smell, blunted and faded too. Jim sank, heavy and thoughtless, into an empty numbness that should have been a relief, except he could not move, could not breathe.

"Blair," he shouted. "Connor, get after them!" But he could not hear the words, and Connor stayed beside him, screaming for help.

Distantly, Jim was aware of people around him. He felt the pressure of hands and knew he was being moved. The voices above him called his name occasionally, but he could not figure out what they wanted. It didn't matter. He couldn't give them anything anyway. In the moments his thoughts were clear, all he wanted was to go after Sandburg, but his arms were leaden and clumsy and he was not always sure which direction was 'up.'

At some point, Connor seemed to turn into Carolyn, but this magical transformation was unimportant. Or unreal. Surely, Carolyn could not be weeping, begging him not to do this. Jim wasn't doing anything.

"We've called an ambulance, Jimmy. Help is coming. You just have to hang on." It didn't sound like Carolyn.

From the cloudiness something familiar emerged. The pressure of hands below his ears, at his throat, at his upper arms. He could not refine any of the details of the touch, although he did know it was not Blair. But from the pattern of the movements, this was a guide.

Jim opened his eyes, found they would only part a tiny slit. His vision was blurry and wet. He blinked, and it helped a little. The face above him was mainly a grey smudge. Dawson, then.

"He's responsive, but in shock. How far away is that ambulance, Mac?"

"I can't hear it. Not close enough. Joe, he doesn't have a lot of time. His--"

"Stand back, damn it. Three meters, MacLeod, do you think I'm kidding?"

"It isn't contagious."

Jim struggled, desperate to get their attention. They had to go after Koren. Koren had Blair.

"Easy, son. Everything's going to be fine." Jim had heard this tone of voice before, once or twice from Sandburg, but mostly from Jack Kelso when Marcia was being treated in the emergency room. Dawson was being a guide, not a cop. Which would not--oh, god--be of any help to Blair.

Jim felt pressure here and there, assumed he was being touched. "We've got a problem, Jim." Slowly, clearly, as though he were not sure Jim would understand. "You're not getting enough air, and if that doesn't kill you first, you are going to die of shock. We have to get some adrenalin moving, or it's all over." Adrenalin. Epinephrine, he must mean. Some alarm floated to the top of Jim's mind. Blair had warned him: Never. No matter what. Ninety percent of sentinels could tell the difference between their own and artificial adrenalin, their bodies rebelled, and they died. "Yeah. This is going to hurt a lot. I'm sorry, son, but we don't have any choice."

There was pressure--the back of Jim's neck? His inner thigh? A wave of tingling passed over his body. Then there was pain. Raw, like being flayed alive. Or burned. It was everywhere. Jim tried to scream and was surprised to only hear a pathetic wheeze.

Impossibly, the pain grew. Even screaming was beyond him now. Then suddenly, like a rubber band snapping, the pain ripped the cobwebs from Jim's mind. The heaviness in his body drained away like water out of a sink. Jim yelled, and it was loud, the unexpected noise slapping against his unready ears.

His yell croaked off into gasping. He could breathe. Almost. Not enough. Jim began to choke, and Dawson said, "Help me sit him up. Easy, son. You're all right."

It was Carolyn who got an arm around Jim's shoulders and sat him up. "Oh, god. I--Thank you." She was nearly incoherent. "What did you do?"

Dawson, seated on the ground beside Jim, began to run his hands over Jim's body. A guide exam. Jim submitted, because he did not have the strength to dodge. "Nothing an ethical American guide would even consider, I'm afraid. Mac, I think that's Blair's backpack over there. Toss it here. You can hit pressure points to make sentinels pump out more adrenalin, but you have to have very strong hands and hit the spots just right, and even then it only works about half the time. Nine times out of ten, it's just a waste of the time you should be using to get some real help." He found the box of wipes Blair carried and began to clean Jim's exposed skin. Jim tried to bat him away (they had wasted enough time on this foolishness. Koren had gotten away) but his hands were shaking too hard to make any impression.

"Will he be all right?"

"He'll be fine," (Jim could not tell if this was the truth or not) "but he needs to go to the hospital. He had an allergic reaction. I don't think that was standard tear gas. Usually it's not quite this bad."

"Like hell." Jim's voice was a miserable croak, so he shut up and dug his wallet out of his pocket. He had to squeeze the tears out of his eyes to focus, but finally he managed to produce Jack Kelso's card. "You call this man. Tell him Koren got to Buckner. Tell him they have Blair. Do not--" Jim had to catch his breath, "tell him anything happened to me."

Dawson took the card and then the wallet. He emptied the wallet--bills, cards, old receipts--into one of the evidence bags from Blair's backpack and pitched the empty wallet away. "Wash the plastic, trade the rest of it away. You need to throw out these clothes."

Jim glared sullenly.

"Koren came armed to kill sentinels. In the nastiest way he could think of. You are not out of the woods yet." He finished wiping Jim and methodically began to clean his own hands with the wipes.

Jim, slow but not totally oblivious, realized that the team from Scotland was not out hunting for Blair right at that moment only because Dawson was too committed to leave a sentinel in trouble. He made a show of caving. "Fine. Ok. I get it. Call Kelso."

But they wouldn't leave until Jim had been handed over to the ambulance crew. It was Carolyn who retrieved the change of clothes from the Expedition and came with him to the ER, though, so he counted it as a victory.

The EMTs were too anxious about treating a sentinel without his guide present to do anything more than put him on oxygen and IV saline. Jim bore it resolutely, hoarding his strength. Carolyn sat rigidly beside him. She looked as washed out and blotchy as Jim felt.

The emergency room had a hazmat shower. Jim submitted to being undressed and washed. A nurse sluiced him with something that smelled like mud and lemons and soothed the burning itch that had been crawling across most of his skin. Nobody resisted when Jim put his own clothes (from the gym bag) on instead of a gown. Saying 'it gives me a rash' could get a sentinel out of almost anything.

He submitted to the doctor's exam and accepted the shot of cortisone. Blair did his best to avoid those, since sentinels were as susceptible to the side effects as anyone else. Still, an emergency was an emergency. As soon as the doctor was finished with his needle, Jim slid off the table and collected the evidence bag with his personal effects. "Thanks. I've got to go." He wanted to say more, but didn't trust his voice.

The hospital staff put up a fuss. Naturally. So did Carolyn. Jim did not have the energy to argue, but she planted herself in front of him and refused to budge. "Carolyn, Sandburg doesn't have a lot of time."

"Simon is working on it," she said firmly.

"I have to find him."

"You're no good to him if you collapse. Jimmy. Blair wouldn't want this."

My guide. My friend. But he could not think of a way to explain in terms she would understand. He tried to step around her; she stopped him with one hand. Relenting, Jim whispered, "I owe him everything."

"He was doing his job. Right now, you can't do yours. Damn it, Jimmy, this is your life."

"I would be dead now anyway, if he hadn't. He wasn't doing his job when he saved me from Brackett. He didn't even know me. Please, Carolyn--" Jim had to stop arguing and breathe. The crystalline alertness and shaking had both faded, and he felt only tired in their wake. God, it might already be too late.

She laid her hands on his shoulders. They felt heavy and hot through the fabric, and grated on his skin. "I'm so sorry about what happened to you. I'm sorry nobody understood what was going on. But you can't--"

Desperate, Jim ducked sideways and fled. His best speed to the parking lot wasn't very fast and left him dizzy and gasping just beyond the outer door, but it freed him of that conversation.

It didn't do much else. He had no car here. Even Carolyn hadn't had a car. He wanted to weep. That probably wasn't a good sign, but then he was full of an extraordinary amount of stress hormones right then. What did he expect?

Inside the bag dangling from his left hand, his cell phone rang. Clumsily, Jim dug it out and opened it while trying to get a few more steps between himself and the hospital. "Ellison," he croaked.

"It's Jack. I've got something."

Jim swayed. "You've got something," he repeated numbly.

"I'm in Hal's office now. There isn't a lot useful here, but three days ago he rented a rough fishing cabin about half a mile from Mt. Rainier National Park. It's about four miles off Route 165."

It could be a trap. But while Koren was clever and ruthless, Buckner wasn't. However he had gotten into this, he was playing way out of his league. This might be a genuine lead.

"Jim? Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. I'll call you back in a couple minutes."

***

They drove toward the harbor less than three minutes before pulling into the loading dock of a converted warehouse that had been serving as loft apartments until it had been damaged by fire earlier in the week. Two closed vans waited inside. At once, Hal and Blair were set to moving the crates of gold from the armored car to the vans.

"How much is here?" Koren asked.

"I don't know," Blair said. This was true. He didn't care enough about the gold to lie. He didn't much care about anything.

It took almost half an hour to shift all the cargo, even with Etz (who was large enough to carry a container all by himself) helping. Then Etz tossed Adam--unconscious still, which Blair realized should be worrying--into one of the vans, taped Blair's hands and feet, and tossed him in after.

For a few seconds, Etz and Koren spoke quietly in a Slavic-sounding language, then Koren said, "Hal, my friend. Why don't you ride with me?"

The doors slammed shut. The engines started.

Blair blinked back tears, not that it mattered very much whether he cried or not. Being brave or clever at this point would not make much difference. He could not change what had happened. Jim--

He dug around in his mind for reassuring statistics on tear gas. Even for the legal varieties, immediate emergency care was usually necessary to avoid permanent damage or death. Even then, the stuff was classified as a deadly weapon in most states these days. Sometimes--

But Jim wouldn't have been one of the lucky ones.

Beside him, on the floor of the van, Adam stirred. Blair roused himself and moved closer, thinking that maybe there was something he could do. He had been shot in the upper arm, both entrance and exit wounds were hidden by clotting blood. His side, too, was torn and bleeding. Blair couldn't tell if the bullet had gone in or just glanced along the ribs. "Adam?" he whispered.

Adam jumped, his eyes snapping open and growing wide with terror. Seeing only Blair, he subsided after a moment, panting. He looked around the little space at the back of the van that they had been crammed in to.

"Adam?" Blair repeated quietly. "How badly are you hurt?" Clearly they should get some pressure on those wounds, but Blair's hands were bound behind him.

Slowly, a sort of coldness passed over Adam's eyes. "Not as badly as I'm going to be." He paused. "I'm sorry, Blair. Things didn't exactly work out."

"So," Blair said sourly, "What exactly was the plan? You set us up as a decoy so Koren would go after the real prize, and then what, exactly?"

Adam's eyes drifted to the stacks of cases filling the forward three-fourths of the small cargo space. "Apparently, I get shot and captured and Koren gets away anyway."

"As they left the site, he tear gassed the police."

Adam's head snapped around. "Mac--"

"He wasn't there. They had already gone after you. Your friend is still alive."

"Tear gas is dangerous," Adam said gently, "But it's not necessarily fatal. There are ways to compensate--"

"Jim had six months of training," Blair cried softly. "He can't raise his blood pressure at will or control his autonomic functions or--hell, he can't even regulate his heart rate. Most sentinels can't do those things under pressure, and Jim was only starting to think about controlled zones." Tears were coming freely now, and itching as they dried since he didn't have a free hand to wipe them away. For a moment he couldn't speak. Jim could have learned all those things, if he'd had two or three more years. He was strong and brave and persistent. If he'd had time and training and encouragement, he could have learned all those skills that make so much difference in emergencies. "I wasn't with him. He was alone--" Jim wouldn't have understood what was happening to his body. He would have been afraid. To his horror, Blair found himself thinking, Please, god, let it have been fast.

Adam didn't say anything. Blair cried quietly to himself.

Stop and go traffic gave way to open road. Blair shifted to lean against the doors and tried to stretch his legs. Unbearable pain had given way to a kind of numbness at some point. Probably better that way, actually. He had seen pictures of Koren's victims, and while it was believed that Kaspari had done the worst of the damage, Koren was a skilled torturer himself.

The sun was setting when the van finally stopped and the back doors opened. Past Koren's face, the setting was fairly attractive; they were in the forest somewhere. The pines were thick and dark, artistically backlit and outlined against the pale sky. Koren hauled Blair out and dropped him onto the damp ground and climbed in himself. Blair could not see what he was doing, but after a few seconds his voice floated out, "Very nice. I see the bleeding has stopped. Good. I was afraid you wouldn't keep, and it will be a while before I can take time to see to you properly."

He jumped back out. "Silas, cut Mr. Sandburg here free, and let's go have a look at the house. We have time for a snack before getting busy."

"Snack?" Blair repeated. He hadn't meant to speak, but while he had been expecting terror he had not been expecting confusion.

Koren's cold eyes fell on Blair. "Yes, you too. You'll need the energy. Gold's heavy." He stepped over Blair and held out his hand to Hal. "Combination?"

Hal silently passed over a slip of paper.

Koren started up a set of rickety, wooden steps that led to a small, unimpressive clapboard house. "The thing about gold is it doesn't travel light," he said. "And at the moment, we're such popular fellows. So most of it will wait here while we go on our way."

The huge man, Silas Etz, produced a knife half as long as Blair's arm and slit the tape holding him. "Get up," he said shortly in accented English.

Blair stumbled as his numb limbs refused to obey, and Hal reached for his arm. Blair shoved him away.

"Blair, I'm sorry," Hal hissed. "I didn't know what I was getting into, and then--"

Blair turned away, accepting the bag of groceries Etz shoved at him, and climbed the stairs after Koren.

****

Simon eyed Jim doubtfully as he got into the car. "Are you sure I should be taking you away from the hospital?" he asked.

"Very funny, Sir," Jim said levelly. He had worked sick before, even when his senses weren't on line. After Brackett, well, he'd managed to perform feeling much worse than this. "Did you talk to Kelso?"

"Yeah. I'm not convinced he's right, but we don't have any other leads worth a damn."

Connor and Rafe, two patrol cars, and the team from Scotland were waiting outside Hargrove when they pulled up. Jack Kelso was just coming out. He had a small pile of papers in his lap, which Simon quickly flipped through.

Jim waited in the car. From the corner of his eyes he could see Jack trying to get a look at him. No way. The last thing Jim could afford was a guide who had the authority to ground him seeing what kind of shape he was in. Fortunately, Simon didn't stick around to chat. He got back in and led the little caravan toward the highway.

Jim was spared having to make conversation by the fact that Simon spent the hour and a half trip on the phone with different state and federal authorities. The case was a definite kidnapping, and the Cascade PD was straying out of their jurisdiction. All together, that meant a lot of polite negotiation.

Jim closed his stinging eyes and made himself listen to the conversations. His thoughts kept straying back to what might be happening to Blair, what might have already happened. The pictures that floated into his mind made him furious and terrified. They made his ears ring and his vision go red.

He couldn't afford those feelings, not if he had any hope of helping Sandburg. Panic and fury would quickly burn up what was left of his strength, for one thing. For another, Jim was going to have to think, and be very, very careful.

Sandburg had taught him how to not pay attention to something that was distracting or irritating. It worked pretty well with sound. It worked abysmally with smell. There was no reason why it wouldn't work with something he was thinking.

He would not think about that first day, in Jack Kelso's office, when he had promised to keep Blair safe.

At some point the caravan stopped for gas. Jim bought some water and a packet of baby wipes and tried to decontaminate his gun and phone. The wipes weren't great, but the surfaces weren't absorbent, so probably it was enough. The bag with his ID and money, he put in Simon's glove box.

In the end, they pulled off the main road about half a mile from where the cabin was supposed to be. Around two corners of the dirt track, they met two other cars; one contained two state troopers, the other a local deputy.

"I was expecting more than this," Simon said as he got out.

The deputy shrugged. "Tractor trailer jackknifed over at Beaver Crossing." He shook his head. "They haven't got the fire out yet. We're it for right now."

One of the state patrolmen glanced nervously toward the northeast. "Shouldn't we wait for the FBI anyway?"

"No," Jim said. "We don't have time."

A light hand on his arm. Jim looked. Dawson. "Easy," he whispered. "Calm down. We're almost there."

Calm down? Are you out of your mind! Koren is going to kill him. But he's going to make them suffer first. Right now, Blair might-- But Jim managed to keep the words inside, managed not to scream. He tried a deep breath. It hurt.

Dawson sighed and held out his hand, "Okay. Take a look at this."

It was a tiny pebble, or maybe a chip of crystal. The edges were rough, but translucent, and if Jim looked, he could see repeated, miniature reflections of the evergreens around them.

"How many colors do you see?" and then, before he could answer, "See fewer."

The tiny rock slid from rainbow trees to gray and non-reflective.

"You can do this," Dawson said. "Everything is going to be fine, but you have to keep it together. Can you do that?"

"I don't know." Jim was faintly surprised to hear an honest and accurate answer instead of something more useful, like a bland promise that he was fine.

"It would be better, wouldn't it? To be calm and alert? After all, you're not badly hurt. The chemical is gone. Really, you're fine. You're just a little upset."

"I'm just upset--" Jim's voice caught.

"Yeah, I know. It's worrisome. But you're ok. You can handle this. Everything is going to be fine."

"Right. Sure."

"Now, take a couple of deep breaths for me and get ready to work."

Jim obeyed.

From close on Jim's left (and he ought to be surprised at being crept up upon), MacLeod said quietly, "I didn't know you could do that."

"I haven't had to in a very long time. How are his vitals?"

"Not quite normal, but good enough. Joe, you know--"

"Hush. One thing at a time. We have to talk. You need to be careful--"

"I'm always careful!"

"Listen. I don't know how far I can follow you through the woods. If you zone--"

"Hey, I have been doing this a while."

Jim opened his eyes, only then realizing that he had closed them. "I'll watch him," he said.

Before the conversation could go any further, Simon raised his voice slightly to say, "Folks, this is Deputy Markoni. He's going to lead the way to the cabin. It's about half a mile from here, and we're going to have to move because it's getting dark. Is everybody good to go?"

***

The little house was clearly a vacation cabin, if by 'vacation' you meant going off to nowhere with your buddies to spend the early hours fishing and the later hours drinking beer. The striped couch was sagging, three of the chairs in the dining area didn't sit flat on the floor and the windows had no curtains. It was not a place you would bring your family.

"Snacks" was Nutella sandwiches and bottled iced tea. Blair wasn't hungry.

Koren put a hand on his shoulder. "The thing is," he said, "gold is heavy. This project gets much easier if you are carrying some of it. At the moment, I'm in a very bad mood. If I were to work some of that off on you, you wouldn't be very helpful getting the gold to the bottom of the lake."

Blair ate the sandwich. When he was done, Koren had no comment, so Blair took the remains of his tea to Adam who had been dumped in the corner by the fireplace.

"Adam," Blair whispered, mostly to see if he was conscious. "You ok?"

"Fine, thanks."

Blair offered the tea, and he drank gratefully. Blair thought for a moment, then de-layered enough to remove his inner shirt. With the changeable and usually cool spring above-ground and the dirty chambers below, he had been layering old shirts at the dig. The shirt ripped when he pulled, which meant he didn't have to ask a favor of the big guy with the knife. Not that he was worried. Koren had all but promised there wouldn't be any torture until after the gold was moved.

Not, he thought angrily, that it mattered. Torture now, torture later. Survive and he would be as unbalanced as Adam. Probably. Though he would not survive. Jim would still be dead.

Blair squatted back down and began wrapping the mangled remains of his clothing around the double wound in Adam's arm. It had started bleeding again, and the cloth was quickly damp and red.

Panting, Adam asked, "What are you doing?"

"Direct pressure? I know it's not sterile--"

"Maybe you've noticed, I'm better off bleeding to death."

Blair thought about that. Adam had a point. But Blair couldn't do it. He pulled the cloth tight and knotted it. "Let me see your side."

"Please don't. I think I've cracked a rib."

Blair might have argued, but just then, Koren stood up and tossed a roll of tape to Hal. "Tie up Pierson. Not too tightly. I just don't want him wandering off." He went back outside then, leaving them alone with Etz.

Blair found his eyes going to the small, slightly rusted hatchet that sat beside the fireplace. Taking on Hal would be no problem. In fact, Blair would enjoy it. Etz was two steps further away. There might be time.

But Silas Etz was using his huge knife to whittle on a short stick. From his record, he was a very competent killer. He wouldn't hesitate if Blair charged him.

Still.... He couldn't be used if he were dead. This way, it would leave all kinds of messy physical evidence. Blair considered, watching the big knife cut along the stick, flicking away occasional chips with a flash of light. If he waited too long, he would lose his chance.

But he wasn't sure he really wanted one. He had no idea what the best way to proceed was. If one way was, ultimately, better than another. If Jim were somewhere it might have been clearer. He would know what to do, if Jim--

Abruptly, Etz put away his knife and went to turn on the lights over the stove. Blair hadn't realized how dark it was getting. Not much longer now, surely.

Hal started to pace. Etz rumbled softly, and he stopped.

There was gunfire outside, a shallow popping in the open air. The exchange lasted a couple of seconds and then Koren yelled--something Blair couldn't understand. More gunfire. Blair realized he should probably get down.

Etz picked up the little hatchet from the fireplace and turned around with a smile that suggested what Koren had said was, "kill the hostages." His free hand reaching, Etz bore down on Blair. He was grinning.

Backing up, Blair's foot caught on the leg of the couch. He went down backwards, landing hard on his butt, looking up at the huge man who was drawing the hatchet back for a swing.

Etz jerked and began to fall. Blair rolled out of his way, his eyes on the rusted weapon. Somewhere he could hear the musical clatter of falling glass. Somewhere there was shouting and banging. As Etz crashed to the floor behind him the thought finally came to Blair that this was a rescue. Simon had found them, or someone else had.

From the shooting going on out front, Koren was still alive. Blair started toward the door; he ought to bolt it or lock it or something, to keep him from retreating here. He hadn't crossed more than a couple of feet when the sound of more breaking glass behind him brought him around.

Jim was coming through the window.

Blair, mid crawl and turning around, nearly fell on his face. He had to look again.

Jim was standing in the room.

The shooting stopped and there was silence outside. There was silence everywhere.

Jim stepped to Hal, said softly, "Lie down. Don't move. If you resist arrest, I'll probably just shoot you."

Megan followed Jim in through the window. She went to Etz, checking the body with a professionalism and coolness that seemed out of place in this unreal moment.

Jim put up his gun and squatted beside Blair. "Chief? You hurt?"

Unreal. Impossible. There was an initial rush of tears that stopped almost at once. Blair shook his head.

Jim grasped Blair's shoulders and then leaned forward to press his face into the top of Blair's head. Scenting him. Apparently whatever he smelled he didn't like, because at once he began to run the palms of his hands over Blair's hair and face, almost trying to wipe him clean. Blair had read about this response, but Jim had never done it before. He must... he must be pretty upset. Weakly, Blair said, "It's ok. It's me. I'm fine." He captured Jim's hands, pressed them hard. "I'm ok." Then tears threatened again. "Oh, god, it's you. You're--you're ok. Jim--"

"All right. All right. Breathe." Jim was shaking. Or Blair. One of them.

"My god, how did you find us?"

Jim laughed weakly. "Jack tossed Buckner's office."

Blair gently punched Jim's shoulder. "Teacher's pet."

The front door flew open. Blair jumped, before he realized it was Simon coming in, MacLeod right behind him. Blair settled his arms around Jim and watched the world unfold around him. Simon paused by the door: cop, assessing the situation. Mac went right to Adam, still bound on the floor near the corner.

"The cavalry," Adam whispered, "Who would have guessed?"

MacLeod silenced him with a touch, lightly pressing here and there in a much more thorough and delicate examination than Blair would ever be able to manage. Megan passed MacLeod a knife, and he cut the tape with one hand while reporting into a small radio, "He's here. He's not badly hurt." Without elaborating, he picked Adam up and carried him to the ancient, striped sofa.

Blair closed his eyes. "Koren's dead," he whispered. "Right?"

"No," Jim said. "He's badly hurt, but he's alive." He frowned, listening. "The local ambulance is on the other side of a big wreck. It'll be a while."

"Ok," Blair said. "Fine." Koren was alive. He supposed he would learn to cope with that. Unless they got lucky and he died waiting for help.

Damn, but Naomi would be ashamed!

"We're sitting on the floor," Jim said.

"Right," Blair answered briskly. But he had trouble getting up.

There were a couple of cops Blair didn't know in the room now. One of them had a camera. The other was talking rapidly into his radio. Strange, how normal this behavior seemed. How had he gotten used to it?

Joe arrived. He ignored the chaos in the room to go sit on the edge of the couch next to Adam. His fussing seemed somehow guide-like, and Blair found that familiar and reassuring, too. Rallying, he edged Jim out of the way into the shabby kitchen area. "Are you ok?" he asked, trying to think like a guide.

"Good enough," Jim said, smiling faintly. "Not up to your standards, but..."

"What happened? I mean, I was sure I saw--Hey! What were you zoned on that you didn't get out of the way?"

"I wasn't zoned. I was just upset."

"Uh, huh," Blair said, not sure how to interpret the answer. Jim got upset--well, fairly frequently--but that didn't mean he made mistakes. On the other hand, now might not be the time to press for specifics Jim wasn't ready to talk about. "Then what happened? You didn't react to the gas?"

"No, I.... It was pretty bad, Chief. Bad." He stopped and Blair nodded. "Dawson, well, did something. It hurt like hell, but it made me shoot out enough of my own adrenalin that I stopped reacting."

For a moment Blair was puzzled, unable to picture what must have happened. Then he winced, understanding just how bad things must have been for Joe to try something so desperate and hopeless that Rainier didn't even bother to teach it.

"I went to the hospital," Jim added quickly. "I got the shower and the shot...."

"And then you left."

Jim sighed and visibly braced himself for a reaming-out. "It's not like there's much point in going to the hospital without you. You know what those places are like."

Blair blinked. "Right. Yeah. Obviously my fault. I should have been there, but I was busy getting kidnapped." Jim clearly didn't think that was funny, so Blair added hastily, "Ok, you discharged yourself, and so far you're fine."

"Mostly," Jim said carefully. Blair waited. "I had some trouble with control before. When we were getting ready to approach the house. I was kind of unsettled."

Unsettled. Unsettled, after a tear gas attack and his guide's abduction. Blair closed his eyes, wondering how bad it was, grateful that Jim seemed to have recovered. "What happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure. I think Dawson may have hypnotized me."

Blair's eyes popped open. "What?"

"Yeah. I didn't know guides could do that."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, we were talking and then things get sort of fuzzy. I felt mostly ok. And really calm." Jim smiled, bemused. "I had no idea."

"But you're ok? You feel all right?" Blair asked anxiously, even knowing the question was meaningless.

"Yeah, I'm on top of it."

"Good, that's good." Blair patted his shoulder gently, managing to hold back the wave of rage until he had turned away.

"Blair--what's wrong."

"Nothing, Jim," Blair growled, bearing down on the couch where Joe was still seated beside Adam. "What the hell did you think you were doing!" It came out at about twice the volume Blair planned, but there was no stopping the words once they started. "Civilized people do not turn off a sentinel's warning signals before sending him into a dangerous situation."

He looked up in such innocent astonishment that Blair wanted to slug him. Multiple times. "Goddamn military training always shows in the end, doesn't it?" Before Blair could swing, Jim seized him from behind, lifted him off his feet, and carried him about two feet back before putting him down.

"Jim, let go."

Jim didn't.

"It wasn't safe for you to work sick. If anybody there should have known that, it was him."

Jim's arm was like a steel band around Blair's stomach.

Duncan MacLeod appeared standing in front of Blair as smoothly and silently as if he'd teleported. He and Jim exchanged a silent, inscrutable, sentinel look over Blair's head, and then Jim said, "I don't know how to explain it."

Mac nodded. "I do." He held out a hand. After a moment, Jim passed Blair over. Angry but unresisting, Blair allowed himself to be drawn aside. A temper tantrum really was out of place here. Jim had been right. This was not the time, and surely not the way. He could file a formal complaint later.

"Coming after you was Detective Ellison's choice. He is a grown-up. He understood the situation."

"What he did could have gotten Jim killed."

"What Joe did was make it possible for Jim to work and not have his body turn on him. Which it was very close to doing."

Too angry to risk answering, Blair ground his teeth together and stared at the floor.

"He was coming after you. We could not have stopped him."

"His job was not more important than his life!" Well, there went his promise to keep his mouth shut.

"This wasn't about his job. Or his duty. It was about you."

"He doesn't owe me his life. Not like this--"

"Blair, no. It's not about debt. It's about the kind of trust you have to have when you put your life into someone else's hands every day. It's about just not being able to bear the thought of you being gone. Going after you was dangerous, but he couldn't have done anything else."

Blair closed his eyes. "You don't understand--"

"I've seen enough of his records to know he's had a very bad year, and that you are very afraid."

"Yes."

"I know he almost died today."

"Yes." It physically hurt, even thinking about that.

"Joe fusses for days when I scare him."

"Ah." Blair's eyes were burning. He closed them.

"He's not in trouble. Not now. I promise you, Joe didn't hurt him."

Silently, Blair nodded. After a moment, he turned away. At the couch he paused to mutter, "I'm sorry," before retreating into the cold spring night.

Outside a couple of spotlights had been set up and a dozen cops from three or four jurisdictions swarmed between the cabin and the driveway. An ambulance was just arriving, siren off, but lights flashing.

Blair stepped out of the way and leaned against a wide tree.

After a few minutes, Jim joined him. "I'm not sure you're doing that right," he said.

"What?"

"The tree hugging thing. I think you're supposed to turn around."

Blair managed a thin smile. "Oops. Well. Don't tell my mom."

"Sure. If you don't tell Jack about the hypnotism thing."

"That was not your fault. You didn't know." Blair waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. We probably won't get into trouble for any of this if the doctor agrees you're ok, and I can get you on vacation ASAP."

"That's blackmail."

"Only if you were completely unreasonable and didn't want to do those things anyway."

"Right. Silly of me. Blair--"

"Just tell me you're ok."

"I'm ok."

To his surprise, Blair's eyes filled again. He would have thought he'd used up all the tears he had hours ago. "Is that true?"

"Yeah."

Blair wrenched himself away from the tree and took a deep breath. "Let's see if Simon will let me take you home."

"I didn't bring the SUV."

"Oh. Right. Ok." Blair looked around, spied Megan. "Hold on." It was the work of a minute to get her keys, and another minute to announce to Simon that he was taking his sentinel home. Both of them gave in quickly, but then Blair had to talk one of the local deputies into giving them a lift back to where the car had been left earlier.

"I could drive," Jim said.

"Bad enough you have to navigate until we reach a main road. I have no earthly idea where we are."

As it was, Jim lasted barely long enough for them to find the highway before falling asleep.

***

Jim woke on the couch, dimly remembering Blair coaxing him out of the car and into the building, and not surprised that he hadn't managed to get any farther. He could hear Blair nearby, talking, but could not follow the conversation. He took a deep breath and stretched, and froze in agony a moment later. Every muscle in his torso hurt. It felt like he had pulled his shoulder working out, only inexplicably the injury had spread across his body, turning muscles he hadn't known he had into immobile knots.

Holding very still, breathing shallowly, he performed a body check. Arms and legs seemed to be ok. No headache, which felt like a miracle. His skin felt a little raw. Not swollen or itchy, not even as bad as a mild sunburn, but still, Jim wouldn't be surprised if a lot of it flaked off. His breathing? It felt like he had a chest full of sand. It was heavy and there wasn't room for a deep breath. Actually, he had felt at least that bad a couple of times a week before Sandburg, so probably it was nothing to worry about.

Body check finished, Jim tried to sit up. The same soreness that made chest and stomach and ribs and back ache when he breathed wouldn't let him move, either. Jim gave in and stayed still. He closed his eyes and tried to find Blair's voice.

"--slept for about twelve hours now, altogether. There's no fever. His pulse is sixty-four." A short pause. "Yeah, I understand." A longer pause, but Jim didn't feel like trying to sort out the voice on the other end of the line. "Ok.... Ok.... Yeah, I'll call you later."

Blair hung up the phone and began to putter around the kitchen.

Jim tried again to sit up. Slowly, he made it this time. It was easier to breathe sitting up. From here he could see the beanbag chair and nest of blankets on the floor beside the couch. Blair hadn't gotten to his bed either. For the millionth time, Jim wondered why the hell anybody would become a guide.

Blair crouched beside him, fussing with the sheet and blanket, watching Jim with a guide's knowing eyes. "Headache?"

"No, everything else." Jim moved a hand helplessly over his chest. "Did I get hit by a car and not notice?"

Blair sighed and shook his head. "No. You're sore from coughing."

"Oh. You've got to be kidding."

"This is after the cortisone shot, which would have done a lot for the pain. In the future, you really ought to avoid tear gas."

"I'll remember that."

Blair disappeared for a moment, returning with a glass of water and two aspirin. "Try this, then we'll work on breakfast."

But the clock on the VCR said it was nearly ten. "We have to go in."

Blair shook his head.

"It's my case--"

"Jim. You got taken off the case when your guide got kidnapped. Sorry. Simon wants a report, but we don't have to hurry."

"Right. Damn. Brown?"

"Sorry."

"Well, that's it, then. You can't get abducted any more."

"Oh, I am so down with that!"

Jim frowned, snagged Blair's arm, and drew him closer. "What happened?"

For a moment Blair didn't seem to understand. Then he blinked rapidly, smelling a little like fear and a lot like relief. "Koren didn't have time to do anything. He was in a hurry and he wanted us to carry his booty. Whatever. He didn't touch either of us."

Jim nodded, waiting. There was more.

Finally, Blair said, "I thought you were dead."

Jim very nearly had been. For all Blair's tales about a long, healthy life, the senses had damn near killed him. Everything after Megan Connor tackled him was a blur, until the pain of whatever Dawson had done had cleared the cobwebs from his mind and he'd realized that he couldn't breathe. He pushed the memory away and said, "Remember that next time you're about to put me in a position to defend you from a sentinel who's not sick."

"What?" Blair asked.

"Chief, what do you think would have happened if you had landed one on Dawson?"

He blinked slowly. Bingo. "Oh, shit."

"Right."

Jim went off to shower while Blair started breakfast. Delightful images of hot water pounding his sore muscles and loosening his heavy chest quickly dissolved. Each individual drop from the shower stung as it hit his tender skin, and the bath he finally made do with was only tepid, because even moderately warm felt like being boiled alive.

Breakfast and several cups of hot coffee did help quite a bit. When Jim went upstairs to change clothes, he didn't have to stop on the way to get his breath, which was good. He sat down on the bed to rest for a moment before dressing and woke up half an hour later to the sound of Blair apologizing. "This was the only time your doctor could squeeze us in. It's go to him now or go to some clinic to have you looked at later, and that won't be fun for anybody."

Jim gave in. As always, the doctor was polite. As always, the exam was a nightmare of needles and touching and cold medical instruments. The doctor, naturally, would not give him anything stronger than Tylenol for the pain. The bright spot was that the unpleasant period was followed by the doctor handing Blair a tube of anesthetic cream and explaining how to dilute it with aloe into a concentration that was usually safe for sentinels. When the test spot didn't show any reaction after five minutes, Blair obligingly spread it everywhere. For the first time since waking up that morning, Jim's skin stopped feeling naked and fragile.

While they waited for the bloodwork to come back, a nurse dug out a couple of heating pads. Heating up slowly and cushioned with towels, the warmth didn't bother Jim's newly anesthetized skin, but the sore muscles began to relax at last. Jim took a deep breath. For the first time since waking up, there seemed to be enough air. As an added bonus, he could move a little.

He felt well enough to grouse. "Look, Chief. How 'bout you just hypnotize me? It would be much simpler than all this doctor crap."

"How 'bout we just work on relaxing you? Little body check, hmmm?" He walked around the head of the table and laid a thumb along the pressure point in the center of Jim's forehead. "Actually, I'm kind of impressed. I didn't know you had the focus and balance for really advanced altered states."

"He was just talking," Jim said, worried about where this might be headed. "And then things got fuzzy."

"No, that's good. I'm impressed. I would have thought you had too many guide issues to go ahead and trust anyone that much. But if you're ready, you're ready. We should work on this."

"Oh, lord," Jim sighed. "He has a new toy."

"Ok, ok. We won't start today. Just take a slow, deep breath and relax."

Perhaps Blair thought he'd fallen asleep, because a few minutes later when the doctor came back, they slipped out into the hall to talk, and always before, Blair had made a point of including Jim in medical discussions, even when he didn't understand them.

There were two white noise machines in the room and one in the hall, and they were high quality. Jim didn't hear what was said when they stepped away from the door. Sighing, Jim roused himself to sit up, and was dressed again when Blair returned. "Well?" he asked.

"Bloodwork: good. Vitals: good. Lungs: mostly ok."

"Good to know."

"I'm to watch you. You are to take it easy. We are to be careful of dehydration."

"Can we go to the station?"

"You can go to the station. You can't chase criminals."

***

Nothing the doctor said had been a surprise. Jim was very, very lucky, but he was not only alive, he appeared not to be facing any permanent damage. He was sore and tired, but his body had stopped reacting. His lungs were still irritated, but they weren't flooding with fluid. His immune system seemed to be completely normal.

Blair took him to a late lunch at IHOP and pressed orange juice on him. Jim, for his part, seemed to continue to improve. He perked up considerably when they got to the station. He homed in on Brian and Henry as soon as they got to Major Crime and eagerly began to critique their progress on the case.

Blair was really not interested in being drafted into doing the paperwork, and looked around for someone else to talk to. Mac, Joe, and Megan were at the conference table in Simon's office, surrounded by piles of paper of their own. Blair winced inwardly and steeled himself to poke his head in the open door. "Hi," he said brightly. "How's it going?"

Megan looked up. "It's unanimous: as bad is this is, you Yanks don't get the prize for frightening paperwork. We're going with France. But chin up. You can always compete again next year."

"Gee, thanks. So how's Adam?"

"We didn't get out of that tiny little hospital in the middle of nowhere until one this morning, but he's at the hotel now, asleep," Joe said. "He's going to be fine."

Blair found he couldn't quite meet Joe's eyes. Hell. "Look," he said, "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Joe started to rise, but Mac waved him back. "Megan, let's go get some coffee."

Megan took in the awkward silence that radiated from Blair. "Am I missing something?"

"Yes, we're missing guide-talk. Hurry up, or we won't miss all of it."

When they were gone, Blair took the seat at the table that Megan had abandoned and said, "About what I said last night. It was really nasty, and it wasn't true--"

"Forget about it. It doesn't matter."

Blair nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah. It's just-- You saved his life. I can't begin to thank you for that."

Joe sighed. "No, you can't. If our positions were reversed, there wouldn't be anything I could say, either. If it helps, I do understand."

"Yeah. Yeah, that helps."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"So," Blair said. "What are your plans?"

Joe sighed again, shoved the papers around on the table, and said, "Your DA is trying to decide whether to charge Adam with interfering in an ongoing investigation. That's where Captain Banks is now, trying to convince his boss to step in on our behalf."

"If there's anything I can do--"

"Believe me, if there were, I'd ask." He smiled briefly. "Now go on. Some of us have work to do."

Blair took the graceful retreat.

***

Epilogue

Sandburg only let him stay at the PD for an hour. When he showed up at Jim's shoulder with a casual, "Ready to head home?" Jim wasn't deceived into thinking it was anything less than an order, and he didn't bother starting a fight he would lose in the bullpen.

Anyway, he was more tired than he wanted to admit. When Blair asked if they should stop and pick up the Expedition, Jim declined. Home. No hot bath, probably, but he could lie down.

"So," Sandburg started, "We've got some time off coming. You mentioned a while back you liked camping. There's this great wilderness area. You have to get there by ferry, but it is way worth it. The hiking is incredible--do you like hiking? Or is it just about fishing for you?"

Jim thought about hiking. The last hike he'd taken had been near dark, and he'd been trying to be quiet while wishing desperately that Deputy Markoni would move faster and straining to hear any hint of Blair's voice on the other side of the ridge. Afraid that if he did hear Blair, it would be the sound of screaming.

All the while, around him, the other cops, nervously creeping through the woods, and behind them, quietly, Dawson singing, trying to give his partner a focus point so he wouldn't zone.

"No ferry," Jim said. And no hiking. Not yet.

"Right. No ferry. Well, there's this monastery about three hours from town. The Franciscans train their guides there. A couple of years back one of their teachers guest lectured at Rainier. He was really great."

Jim roused himself to look at Sandburg. He wasn't kidding. "A monastery. For vacation."

"Well, as a retreat. It's quiet there, and sentinel friendly. It's only ten dollars per person, per night. They have golf."

"Golf?"

"Well, it's a cow pasture. But some of the guests play golf there. The thing is, it's comfortable, it's safe, and they won't make big complicated demands."

"Monks have guides?" Jim asked. He was dubious about the whole enterprise.

"Who do you think works in the parochial schools?"

"I'll think about it," Jim said, wondering how Sandburg had parked the car, gotten out, and come around to Jim's side before he could even get the seat belt off.

Upstairs, Blair settled Jim on the couch and handed him more orange juice. "We don't have a lot here for dinner. If you're ok, I thought I'd go shopping," he said.

"Gee, do you think I can be left alone for five minutes?" Jim asked.

"Probably," Sandburg conceded graciously.

Jim attempted to look pitiful. "How about steak?"

"You wish," he replied, laughing. But Jim figured the chance of steaks being in the basket were at least fifty-fifty. He tried not to look smug as he meekly drank the juice.

***

There was a policeman standing guard outside the door. Megan handed him her ID, both her own from New South Wales and the little card Captain Banks had given her. After a moment, he handed them back and reached behind him to open the door.

Megan entered the hospital room. Koren was pale and, with his jaw wired shut and swollen, hard to recognize. At least, someone else might have a hard time recognizing him.

In her head Megan counted up the bodies again. The ones for whom he was formally wanted, and the ones in which he was only suspected. She stood for a long time by the door, hoping he would wake up. He didn't, and she finally gave up and left.

Back at the hotel, she took a card from her wallet and dialed a lot of numbers. The phone sounded like she was playing a sonata on the keys before she got a ringing at the other end. "Jackson residence."

"Betty, it's Megan. We got him."

There was silence on the other end, then, "Dead? Or alive?"

"Alive. In Washington."

Betty already knew the kind of crimes Koren had been wanted for, and she already knew that Washington was a death penalty state. "Good," she said.

"It doesn't--" Her voice gave out, and Megan had to start again. "I can't believe it's over." She couldn't. When she closed her eyes, Megan saw what had been left of Ron Jackson after Koren's bomb. She had been a constable less than a year when this monster had killed her partner. Hunting for him had consumed her whole career.

On the other side of the line, continents and oceans away, Betty said, "It is over for you. You did everything Ronny could have asked for. He would be so proud of you."

For a few moments there was only a damp silence as they both wept a little. Megan could not remember the last time she'd cried. "Anyway, I just wanted you to know."

"I'm glad you called," Betty said. "We'll get together when you come home."

Megan hung up the phone and sat for a long time staring out the window at the sunlight glittering off the buildings of Cascade.

***

Duncan hated elevators. The vibration wasn't quite enough, as he passed each floor, to drown out all the telling noises that laid out brief glimpses of four or five lives at a time. It was more irritating than channel-flipping. His focus wasn't quite good enough to follow five or six conversations at a time, and besides that, they were moving, making him sea-sick.

"You know," Joe said softly, "here's a really wild thought. The case is closed. We're off duty. How about you try relaxing?"

Duncan scowled. "Can't," he said.

"You can't? I know what your control is like. You could zone out a hurricane. So the question is, 'why won't you?'"

Duncan was saved from having to answer by arrival at their floor. He shrugged and exited the car, but made it no more than three feet before pausing. On this floor, the voices were familiar. Maybe this was what he was listening for.

Adam: "--don't know. I never thought that far ahead. Maybe it doesn't matter."

Tessa: "Adam! Of course it matters. You have to know--"

Tessa's voice was gentle and chiding; she was treating him the way she would Mary, which might be just what he needed. Duncan steered Joe into the ice and vending machine alcove tucked in beside the elevator. "They're having a talk," he said. "I think we should give them a few minutes."

There was no place to sit in the little alcove, but Joe perched on the edge of the of the narrow, gray heating box. "How's your hearing?" he asked.

"I'm not listening," Duncan answered.

"To me? Or to them? Don't answer that. Talk to me." He knew how hard it was for Duncan to filter out his wife's voice. Almost any other sound in the world, for the most part, he could ignore, but not his wife's voice, not his guide's voice, and not Mary crying.

"Neat trick, that hypnotism thing. Could you do it to me?"

"I've put you under two--no, three--times already."

"You're kidding," Duncan said sharply. "I'd remember."

Joe snickered. "Remember your third date with Tessa?" He hummed the opening of "All you need is Love."

Duncan gaped. "You're kidding."

"You were in a baaaad way. What gets me is you didn't even notice anything unusual about how fast we took care of it."

On their third date, Tessa had invited Duncan to her place for dinner. Although she hadn't been a bad cook even then, she'd been nervous and they'd distracted each other, and before either the chef or the sentinel noticed, there'd been a small kitchen fire. It wasn't bad. It never got out of the pan. They'd had a fire extinguisher. Dinner was ruined, but there'd been no danger of burning the building down.

Except it turned out that Duncan was allergic to whatever was in the fire extinguisher. In five minutes, every square centimeter of his body had been covered in puffy, red hives, including the parts of his body that were under his hair or normally covered by underwear. Embarrassed and a little worried, Duncan had rung Joe. By the time he arrived, the hives had spread to the inside of Duncan's mouth and were chaining into thin, angry, red lines everywhere else. He looked like he was covered in interlocking bead bracelets. Tessa had been in tears, and Duncan, unused to severe reactions and completely knocked off his center by his anxiety over the date anyway, could not get his reaction under control.

Joe had commandeered Tessa's bathroom and popped Duncan into a tepid baking soda bath where he'd sung Beatles songs for a while before pronouncing Duncan fine and suggesting they try a movie.

"You--you hypnotize me with Beatles covers." It was somehow demeaning.

"Well, I wanted it to be something I would never sing accidentally. In case you developed a conditioned response."

"You never told me!"

"Pardon me for assuming you'd eventually notice."

Duncan started to answer, couldn't. "Wow. I'm really thick," he said.

Joe laughed at that, as he was meant to. But he glanced anxiously down the hall. "Still talking?" he asked.

"Ah, nope. Let's go on in."

As Joe moved past him, Duncan smelled, well, nothing he hadn't smelled for days, really. But he couldn't ignore it any more. The physical pain wasn't actually as bad as it might be, given their recent schedule. Exhaustion was something Joe could fix himself easily enough. But the smell of despair.... Duncan held out his hand.

Joe hadn't been trained with British Isles guide protocols, but almost all of his civilian career had been spent among sentinels who expected them. Automatically, he placed his palm on top of Duncan's. The formal gesture was far more intimate than it looked. Joe's hand was cool and stiff with tension. He caught Duncan's eye and tried to pull away. "Hey," he protested. "I'm fine."

Duncan smiled. "Sure. That's not the point." He lifted their hands. "I have a right to this. You made promises. There was a ceremony and everything."

Because they processed such a high volume of tactile input (and much of it was threat analysis) the reassurance and comfort of touch went a long way with most sentinels. After more than twenty-five years as a guide, Joe had the subtleties of this communication engraved on his soul. The comfort of this formal, intimate gesture nearly undid him. "Mac, I'm fine."

"I agree."

"Look, when this is all over, when we're home, you can take me out and get me thoroughly drunk. Or we can all go to the beach. Or Glenfinnan. Your parents have been after us for a visit."

Duncan had no doubt that his mother had been trying to coax Joe and Tessa to bring him home for a visit. Duncan's dad had probably stayed out of it. He hadn't been close to either of his sons since they were babies. In Connor's opinion, he couldn't forgive his sons for manifesting the sentinel talents that had skipped over him. At the moment, the main issue was that Connor and Duncan had both taken guides which were, to Ian's very conservative, very Protestant, very ethnocentric prejudice, 'inappropriate.' Both Rachel and Joe were the wrong religion. Bad enough, but Rachel was the wrong gender (which could have been overlooked if Connor were married to her, even in police work, but he wasn't) and Joe was from some foreign country, also unforgivable. Things actually went downhill from there.

Duncan had not been home for more than two years. The last visit had been for Christmas, and Ian had started in on Joe. After the marines, Joe had spent most of a year playing jazz in sleazy bars until being tapped by a colleague to do some guide consulting in London. Ian had sounded triumphant, attacking with this information more than twenty years later, and he didn't stop there.

Duncan had been down by the lake playing with Mary when it happened. Running, it had taken far too long to get back to the house. Panting and furious, but not so far gone that he would quarrel in front of the child, he had given Mary to Joe and said, "Find Tessa and Adam and pack. We're going home."

Afterward, he had talked about it with Connor, who had said it was probably just a distancing technique. After all, was there a more effective way to alienate Duncan than to accuse his guide of being a 'bad influence' on a small child? It didn't matter why his father had said those terrible things. He had said them. Mother had gotten Ian to apologize, but Duncan hadn't been home since.

"All right," Joe said. "That was the wrong thing to offer if we wanted to relax." Duncan managed a smile. "I'm holding it together now, but if you keep being kind I'm going to fall apart right here."

Duncan wasn't sure that would be a bad thing. Adam's complaint that guides were expected to be too calm and impossibly reasonable and endlessly supportive had more than a little truth in it. But he let go of Joe's hand and stepped back.

Although Koren was injured and in custody, Tessa had kept the deadbolt on the door. They had to wait while she unlocked it for them. Duncan hugged her as they came in. She smelled sweet and clean and much less worried than she had these last few days.

Adam was sitting on the couch in the living area. He looked up at them for a moment, then set aside an empty bowl and spoon and composed himself. Even from half way across the room, even over the stink of his pain medication, Duncan could smell his distress. There were so many kinds of upset he couldn't begin to sort them by type.

Joe looked Adam up and down and sighed. "The hospital released you on the condition of bed rest."

Adam's heartbeat spiked and a fresh wave of anxiety wafted off of him. His voice, however, was unwavering and faintly contemptuous. "I was hungry. Do I need to ask permission to eat?"

The acid tone dissolved the last remains of Joe's reasonableness. "No, but it would be nice if you sent us a memo before you baited a serial killer!"

The words echoed off the bland, cream-colored walls and then sank away to silence. For a long moment, Adam sat very still. Then he climbed laboriously to his feet and started for the bedroom door. The best speed he could manage was not fast enough to qualify as dramatically storming off, making the moment particularly sad.

Joe closed the distance between them and said, "We would have listened, Adam. We would have helped you."

Adam stopped, turned. This time he was moving so fast he nearly stumbled. "I didn't want your help!"

"What, you had to do this yourself? Of all the stupid--"

"Koren took everything from me. Including me. He was not, by god, going to get you or endanger your sentinel."

"Oh. So you just got somebody else's partner almost killed. Much better."

"Stop it," Tessa cried. "Both of you. Stop it. It was bad enough that Koren was ripping us apart when he was free. But he's in custody now. It's over. This has to stop."

Slowly, slowly, Adam made his way to Tessa and kissed her formally on the cheek. "I am so sorry. I promise, no more," he said, and resumed his retreat to the bedroom.

In the aching silence that followed, Duncan pointed toward the closed door.

Joe shook his head.

Duncan narrowed his eyes and mouthed, "Now."

"You." Joe returned, as silently.

Duncan stalked over and hissed in his ear, "He won't listen to me. Get in there and talk to him."

Joe went. The closed door, of course, was no barrier to following the conversation. "So, there's good news, anyway," Joe started out. "You're not going to be arrested by the local police."

"Ah. How did you manage that miracle?"

"I saved Captain Banks' sentinel. He was very, very grateful."

"Oh. I wondered." A pause, then, "I suppose I owe you a thank you."

"I don't want a thank you. I want you to stop acting like an idiot."

"Right. I'll get right on that tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm a little tired."

Duncan sighed. This was not going well.

"Hey," Tessa said, punching his shoulder gently. "I suppose you eavesdrop on me, too? Behave. Anyway, I have been in this hotel for days now. I haven't seen America at all. You need to change so you can take me out to dinner."

Duncan glanced at the closed door. "Joe and Adam--"

"Are not interested in going out tonight. I am." That was not precisely what Duncan had meant. But just what was he worried about? It wasn't like Joe was going to start a fist fight, not with Adam recovering from a bullet wound. They would be fine.

In any case, Tessa was already propelling Duncan toward their bedroom. "So," she said, making sure to distract him from the other conversation, "how is the other sentinel, Detective Ellison?"

"I saw him today. He's all right, actually." He pushed away the memory of Jim lying on the comparatively dry ground beside the collapsible work table, his body eerily silent and still except for the stumbling race of his heart as it weakened and failed. He had never seen another sentinel go down like that before. While he had been in school, three of the other students had died suddenly, but Duncan himself hadn't been present when the disasters happened. Right about the time Mary had been born, Connor had been exposed to tear gas, but his reaction had not been nearly as severe, even at the beginning, and by the next day, when Duncan had visited the hospital, the only symptom still present was an itchy case of contact dermatitis. He'd seen plenty of mild, persistent problems over the years. He'd even had some of them. But nothing, ever, like that. "I can't imagine," he said, opening the room's small closet to see what he could wear to a restaurant.

"Neither can I," Tessa said, brushing her hair. "To wake up one day and discover you're a sentinel? There are days when it keeps three of us busy, and you grew up learning how to do it."

That wasn't what he'd meant, but he wasn't going to clarify. There wasn't much in the closet, but Tessa had packed a pale blue shirt she liked to see him in, and he selected that one. "I haven't had a lot of the problems sentinels often have."

"How is his guide? He seemed to be a very nice young man."

"How is he after the rescue, or how is he as a guide?"

"After the rescue."

"Fine, we found them very quickly this time." Duncan paused, frowning, and pushed images of Richie out of his mind. "He's not a bad guide. A little nervous, I suppose. It must--"

At this sudden silence, Tessa looked up from putting on her good shoes. "What's wrong?"

"Adam just started crying," he reported.

"Good. He's needed a good cry since September. How's Joe?"

"Handling it." Joe was also crying, now. "You were right. I should let him take care of this. Are you ready to go?" He wouldn't be able to listen to this for very long without interfering, and that would be a bad idea. After his escape from Koren last fall, Adam had focused his anger (inwardly, invisibly, politely) on Duncan, the sentinel who had not been good enough to find him. Until he had begun to truly cope with what had happened, however he needed to do that, there was nothing Duncan could say that his friend could hear.

But logic could not hold out for very long against the sound of his guide's distress. Duncan led Tessa to the door. "What kind of food did you have in mind?"

"I hear the Americans are very fond of steak," she said. "When in Rome?"

****

Since Jim wasn't with him, Blair stopped by the dry cleaners. Just to be safe, he un-bagged the clothes and aired them out with the car windows half-way open. It felt very good to do the normal, every-day chores. He decided that before the store, he'd stop by the department and finally pick up his mail.

His box was beyond full. It was so jammed with papers that Blair had to tug and wiggle to get the first handful of department memos and lecture advertisements out. The second handful burst free so fast that half of it crashed to the floor. Sighing, Blair bent down to pick them up.

"I'm glad you came in. The secretaries were starting to get annoyed about the state of your box. I have to warn you, getting the secretaries around here annoyed at you is a very high-risk behavior."

Blair rose very slowly, composing himself. He had not heard Jack Kelso come up behind him. Taking a deep breath, he turned around. "Hi." He wasn't sure he should smile.

"How's Jim?"

This was not necessarily a bad sign; 'how's Jim' was always Jack's first question, even before the disagreement over the golden.

"Better. The doctor says there may be some flaking on his hands and face. His lungs are a little irritated still, but not badly. He's sore. I hope that right now he's asleep."

"That's what the doctor says. What's your opinion?"

Surprised, Blair looked around for a chair and sat down. "I would never have expected him to recover from something like that so quickly. I wish I could learn how to--but who would I practice on? You have to do it exactly right, or you might as well not do it at all." Jack nodded for him to go on. "So I'm not worried about the gas exposure. But he's exhausted. So much is going on in his life right now. Oh--this is new, you haven't heard. He's having flashbacks to Brackett. One flashback. Jim says there's nothing to panic about and maybe he's right, but we have got to have some quiet and some space and some time, you know? I need to get him to stop running for just five minutes so I can figure out--so we can figure out--" Blair stopped, looked away. "I don't know what he needs. I don't know if he's ok."

Jack watched him narrowly. "So you're panicking."

"Yeah. Mostly. I think... I think maybe you were right. I wasn't being careful enough before--"

"Stop."

"But I really think--"

"Stop."

Blair shut his mouth.

"Blair, I had three partners before Marcia, and I worked them all sick. I worked Marcia sick." Jack stopped, gazing down at his hands folded in his lap. "Getting the job done was 'more important' than protecting them. What I said to you--I wasn't mad at you. I was mad at me. For what I did to them. I'm sorry."

"But--Jack. I think you might have been right."

"About what?"

"The golden messed Jim up a lot. He shouldn't have been working."

"Ah. Tell me something, Blair. Why didn't you ground him?"

"Because I was afraid if he had too much time to think, or had to face how vulnerable he was, he'd panic. He's just barely getting some control when he's not panicking. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe he could have dealt with that. It was hard on him, trying to work that way."

"You're missing the point," Jack interrupted. "Maybe letting him work was the right thing to do and maybe it wasn't. Sometimes you are going to make mistakes. No matter how much we teach you, we can't change that. But as long as you make the decisions you do for the right reasons, even if they're the wrong choices, then the consequences can be dealt with."

Blair thought about that. "No," he said. "This is Jim's life. I can't make mistakes."

"Right. You, alone, in all the world will not make mistakes? That's your first mistake right there. Things will go wrong. Sometimes, things will go wrong because of you. When that happens, are you going spend what time you have beating yourself up because you've made a mistake, or are you going to shrug, move on, and fix it?"

He was probably right. Blair almost hoped not. He would rather not make mistakes.

"So, how are you doing?" Jack asked. "Were you hurt?"

"No. They didn't have time. Thanks, by the way. Jim says you really came through for him."

"Not just for him."

Surprised and moved, Blair closed his eyes. "Thanks, Jack."

"Take your mail and go home, Blair," Jack said gently, "And take your partner on vacation."

****

Adam was asleep. He had cried himself out and curled up on top of the covers with his injured arm held tight against his chest. He didn't look all that comfortable, but it was probably the best sleep he'd had in months.

'I did this all wrong,' Joe thought. But he had done his best, and still did not know what would have been better. Since he'd been released from the hospital last September, Adam had fought any attempt to comfort or help him. He had refused therapy. He had refused vacations. He had pushed away his friends. He had pushed away his lover. Compassion and anger alike had been met with indifference or icy resentment. It hadn't helped that, as support staff assigned to the case, Joe knew the extent of the torture, knew exactly what Koren and Kaspari had done. He could not pretend that nothing had happened. He could not ignore the mood swings and sleeplessness. He had been, for so long, so desperately worried about Adam, afraid that he would do something stupid.

When he finally had done something stupid, Joe had handled it so poorly. "I want you to stop acting like an idiot." Oh, yes. Very compassionate, there. You'd think a professional guide could do better. Not that, on the times Joe had done better, Adam had been any more receptive. Patience had also been pushed away, every time. But still.

The words hadn't died away before he was regretting them, but Adam just scowled and said, "Right. Skip idiot. I'll get right on that tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm a little tired. Why don't you go fuss over your sentinel or something?"

Wincing, Joe managed to rein in his temper, even as he ran into the wall he had already run into so many times already. "It wasn't your fault, you know," he said gently. Much better, even though it wasn't appreciated.

"What do you mean, it wasn't my fault? You said it yourself. I nearly got a sentinel killed. That was unforgivable. All of it was unforgivable." Joe started to answer, and he hurried on, "What would you be saying now if it had been Mac instead? If I had killed him, would you even be speaking to me?"

Joe set aside the picture of Duncan lying on the cold ground, ravaged from the inside out, slowly choking to death. "What Koren did to you," Joe said slowly, desperately committed to sticking to his point this time, "was not your fault."

"No," Adam said blandly, looking away. "Of course not. I was a crime victim. Next announcement?"

Wearily, Joe sat down on the bed next to him. He didn't know what to do next, not really. He put a hand on Adam's shoulder.

Adam gasped and pulled away. At once he froze and composed himself. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean that, Joe."

But Joe, watching very carefully (whatever complaints Adam had about guide training, it was serving them well now), had seen what he did mean. Slowly, Joe put his hand back on Adam's shoulder.

Adam held very still, enduring the touch.

"Say it," Joe said.

"I'm fine," he ground out.

"The words you're holding in. I want to hear them."

Adam shrugged, gave him a sour look. "All the touching, again. Guides--"

"No," Joe used his free hand to push himself closer. "What you're really thinking." He leaned in, slowly.

Adam managed to hold his position for almost two more seconds, then with his good hand, shoved Joe away. "Don't touch me!" he hissed. "Get away from me."

Joe moved out of his intimate space. "Much better," he said. "But it's not me you're thinking of, is it?"

Adam's eyes narrowed. "No. I can stop you."

"You couldn't stop him."

"No. I didn't try." Adam dropped his eyes, but not before Joe saw the tears begin. "I didn't dare." He began to cry in earnest.

Joe folded his arms and stayed very still, his own eyes filling up. "It wasn't your fault," he whispered. "What you did -- It wasn't unforgivable. It just made everybody do things the hard way, that's all. We'll get over it."

Between his horrors and the pain medication, Adam had cried himself to sleep while Joe sat beside him not daring to offer comfort either by word or by touch. He supposed he should be grateful that they had gotten even this far, that Adam had admitted there was a problem.

Joe supposed he should get up, go find something to eat, visit the head, something. He was just so weary, and after sitting so long, when he did finally stand up, it was going to hurt like hell. Maybe they could all take tomorrow off. Koren wasn't going anywhere. The chief constable couldn't expect them to turn around and fly home right away. As much as he hated to give in, even a little, claiming a sick guide was a very effective excuse for a sentinel.

The phone rang. Damn, damn. Even at his best speed, the damn thing was on the fifth ring before he made it to the living room. Joe desperately hoped it had not woken Adam. "Dawson," he whispered.

There was a short pause, then, very softly, "Hi, Uncle Joe."

"Mary? It's..." He did some rapid math but wasn't confident of the results. "The middle of the night where you are. What are you doing up?"

"I had a bad dream, and I wanted to talk to mom."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I think she and your dad went to dinner. Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

He didn't follow very much of the convoluted account she gave. Long after most average children shifted to telling more or less linear stories, Mary was talking more and more in circles and spirals and segues. She wasn't always incoherent. When discussing thoughts she was quite clear and articulate, but her communication (and it wasn't only speech, but also drawing and play) about experiences often disregarded time and cause/effect relationships in favor of other kinds of order altogether. She talked the way a lot of sentinels thought.

It took almost five minutes to assemble the content of the bad dream, which was even more fragmented than most of Mary's descriptions. Apparently, she had dreamed that one of the kittens inside Connor's cat Aife had died. It was, Joe agreed, a very bad dream, but it wasn't necessarily true. If Aife was in any trouble, Connor would know.

But even as he said all this, Joe wondered if she was right. Even if she weren't, what were the chances that she was dreaming about the inside of cats because her subconscious was trying to process information about the inside of cats?

"Aife will be sad," Mary said, dragging him back to the present conversation. "And cats don't talk English, so she can't cry properly."

"Sweetheart, even if Aife has lost one of the babies, she'll never know."

"Of course she'll know!"

"But since she doesn't talk English, we can't tell her, so she won't know." Eventually, after going around on it for a while, Mary came to understand that Joe actually meant to say that a cat could not know how many kittens she had inside her. She thought this idea was bizarre and deeply funny. Mary knew what was inside her body. Her body was inside her body. How could you not know who was inside your body with you?

When Mary finally rang off she was in a much better mood. As always, Joe wasn't sure what she'd gotten out of the conversation. But inside-out and circular stories aside, Mary was functional in the world. Her grades were a little below average, but that wasn't unusual for sentinels. She had friends and she was usually happy enough. She was a normal height and weight. She ate and slept and played. Most of the time she didn't have bad dreams. In the middle of the night, halfway in a dream, she was essentially on another planet, but her interface with other humans functioned adequately most of the time.

She was basically ok, and a sweet person besides. And she was his responsibility.

When Mary was two days old, Mac had gone to pick Tessa and Mary up from the hospital, and Joe had let himself into their little townhouse with his key and cleaned up the kitchen and changed the sheets. There wasn't much to do, sentinels tended to be tidy, and Mac was no exception, but he didn't want Tessa to come home to any kind of mess at all. He'd been on his way to get his coat and head home when mom and dad arrived with their new addition.

"Sit down, Joe," Mac said, setting down the car seat and freeing the baby from the restraints.

"I'm just on my way out. There's sandwiches and lemonade in the fridge--"

"Sit down." This time it was an order, and wondering why, Joe sat. Mac picked up the baby, gazed down at her for a moment, and then passed her to Tessa. "It would mean more, coming from you," he said.

It wasn't until Tessa planted herself in front of him and paused awkwardly that Joe finally realized what was happening. "Hey," he said quickly. "I'm not from around here. I don't expect--you don't need to--" Something in Tessa's face stopped him.

"This is usually a formality," she said. "Four times out of five, nothing ever comes of it. But with Mac's family history, the odds are close to fifty-fifty. I know it's asking a lot. But if she is a sentinel--I'm so scared, Joe. I couldn't do this without help."

Before she could start crying, Joe held out his arms. Mary was light, and very small. He had seen her from a distance, in the hospital. She had been beautiful then. Joe had been so proud of Mac.

Here, in his arms, she was beyond beautiful. Joe trembled slightly with awe. Such tiny breaths. Such tiny eyes. Such tiny fingernails.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember if there was something he was supposed to do now. British guide customs were very formal and ritualized, even though the role was barely a hundred years old. The purpose of this ceremony was to minimize jealousy and conflict between a sentinel's guide and family. It also helped to reduce some of the anxiety sentinels or their spouses might have about being parents of a potential sentinel. By taking the baby, he was, in a way, making the same promises to her that he'd made to Mac the day Mac had knelt and placed his life in Joe's hands.

He glanced up. Tessa was watching nervously. Joe petted Mary's cheek with one finger and said quietly, "You're not going to give us any trouble at all, are you, angel? No, you're going to be just fine. Your momma has nothing to worry about."

So far, he'd been right. Mary's problems had generally been of the usual kind. In a lot of ways, she was a completely normal child. Her brain was still developing, though, and as her thoughts got more sophisticated they began to resemble a sentinel's more and more. If she waited two years to manifest the full range of heightened senses, Joe could retire at three-quarter pay and home-school Mary--which meant that the boarding school would never separate Mary from her family the way Duncan and Connor (not close enough in age to be placed at the same school) had been separated.

But there was still no telling how far behind Richie's head injuries would finally put him. Even two years might not be enough time for him to graduate. Duncan couldn't work with just any guide. If he shut out part of the world, an earthquake couldn't get his attention. His precise and stubborn focus of concentration was worse than the involuntary and pointless zoning of most poorly trained sentinels, and without someone who could bring him out in an emergency, he was very vulnerable.

There was no point in borrowing trouble. They hadn't had to make that choice yet. It was barely possible that it would never come up at all.

Joe yawned and leaned back. He could fall asleep right there, forget food, forget a shower. But then he pictured what Mac and Tessa would say when they found him in the living room. Both of them tended to fuss.

The thought galvanized him into action. He heated up some of the soup Tessa had made. It was good, if a little bland. Tessa had gotten used to cooking for a sentinel, even if Joe still hadn't gotten used to eating like one.

After showering, he was faced with a dilemma: there was only one bed in the second bedroom. He and Adam had been sharing peacefully enough up until now, but that was before Adam's second abduction and the painful confrontation just an hour or two before. Would Adam freak if he woke up and discovered he wasn't alone? Would he feel dismissed if Joe gave up and bedded down on the couch? He had known Adam for more than two years, and as close as they'd gotten, he was damn hard to predict.

While Joe was hesitating, the object of his circular fret opened his eyes and looked up. "Are you angry?" Adam asked.

Yes, Joe realized. He was furious. But not with Adam. "No," he said. Although the sun had only recently gone down, the room was quite dark. It was hard to make out Adam's expression.

"Then come to bed and stop looming," Adam muttered. "I won't bite."

Joe sat down on the edge of the bed to finish undressing. "That's not what I've heard," he answered softly.

"Lies." The slurred voice was barely understandable. "All of it. I swear on my mother's grave."

Joe set his legs in front of the nightstand and slid beneath the covers. "Very funny. I've met your mother. And your stepmother." But Adam was already asleep, and didn't respond to the teasing.

****

Jim woke up when Blair stepped off the elevator. He heard the crunch of bags and sniffed for steak. His sense of smell was still pretty shot from the tear gas, so he couldn't make out whether or not Blair was carrying any real meat.

Jim didn't quite make it to the door in time to open it for Blair, but he took one of the three bags he was balancing and rescued the dry-cleaning Blair was holding with his teeth. "You yell at me for putting stuff in my mouth. You don't know where that's been."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

Now that he was this close, Jim could smell contentment and relief on Sandburg. "It's after eight. Where have you been? Something happen?"

"Got the dry cleaning. Then I stopped by the department, and had a talk with Jack."

Here the happy smell spiked. "Which went well?"

"Fine. I seem to be off his shit list. But what took so long was going out to Whole Foods."

Jim scowled. "Where they have the fresh sprouts and the dried grapefruit."

"Dried mango," Blair laughed. "And organic beef." He produced a football-sized package wrapped in white butcher paper.

Jim was suddenly starving. "You are a saint. A prince among men," he said. He frowned, suddenly suspicious. "You're going to make me pay for this, aren't you? Vision tests with the letters moving? Or those earphones that play two songs at once?"

"Yes. But not till we get back. I really do mean it about the vacation."

"Right. The vacation at the monastery. It'll be a ball."

"Better than tests." Sandburg was not, apparently, going to let this whole vacation thing go. In theory, time off was a fine idea. He had it coming. His only hot case had just closed. Why not a long weekend practicing his back swing in the cow field behind a monastery?

Because that wouldn't be all there was to it, that's why. Nothing since this sentinel thing started had been easy, and as upbeat as Sandburg was, as optimistic as he seemed to be about Jim's chances for a reasonable life, everything was still a big production.

Nothing was a little deal. Everything was hard. The vacation surely would not be fun. Or relaxing. Or normal.

Then Sandburg caught his eye. The sympathy Jim saw there made his breath catch, although Sandburg wasn't a mind reader and could not possibly know what Jim was thinking. But he smiled encouragingly and began to unwrap the steak. "So, Jim? Potatoes with your steak? Or olive bread?"

Jim managed to smile back. "Both," he said. Maybe the monastery thing wouldn't be so bad.

 

END


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